


await the resurrection

by BloodyMary



Series: Forbears of what will be [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Dawn of the Jedi (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, anyone thought that there'd be no civil wars in the Infnite Empire?, oh look who turns out to be alive, tw: depressive self-talk, tw: discussions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2020-03-19 21:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 45,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyMary/pseuds/BloodyMary
Summary: Someone in the Infnite Empire probably thought that their trouble on Corellia would end once it was conquered. It's now been fifteen years, and whoever made that prediction was almost definitely executed for incompetence. Not that it's going to help the Dictator Illai's Force Hound much--trouble just found Shen, and it's not going to leave.





	1. Where Shen's Life Gets Turned Upside Down

Shen had thought it’d be just another execution. He’d stood on the coarse, grey sands of the Amphitheatre many a time to bring Dictator Illai’s justice to those his master deemed to be offensive to him. By now, the leering faces of the spectators and the claustrophobic walls of the building encircling him had become a well-known sight.

Just like he knew what awaited him: the Dictator’s guards would escort out a prisoner and he’d kill them. This one was a high-profile catch: a well-known terrorist and a Force-sensitive too boot. There’d be no fight, just an execution. And there she was, flanked by armoured human guards, walking confidently as if she weren’t about to die.

The woman’s hands had been bound with heavy durasteel manacles, but she seemed not to notice them. She stood silently, head bowed so that her features were shadowed by a veil of long black hair, apparently not caring that she was awaiting her doom. The crowd that had come to watch a public execution cared little for that—they wanted spectacle, and it seemed like they’d get none.

Shen just wanted it all over with. His master was ill, locked away in his rooms, and the city was growing restless. There was rioting in the streets, and the public execution of one of the instigators was meant to calm the situation.

Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn’t—Shen had no way of knowing, but he was keenly aware that he was in the open, under the gaze of thousands. All of whom could turn on him as eagerly as they’d lap up the woman’s blood.

Behind him, a giant monitor blared with Shen’s master’s voice, yelling about the might of the Empire and the fate of all traitors. This was his cue. He gathered all of his fear and projected it like a blade—by now it was almost an instinct to start a fight like this. Sharing his fears, letting them weaken his opponent so that they wouldn’t put up to much of a fight. But the woman didn’t seem to notice at all.

His master’d fallen silent, Shen knew it was the time to end the woman’s life. Except, she looked up at him, and he froze. Her eyes were an eerie shade of pale blue, framed by dark lashes and set in a golden-skinned face with high cheekbones and full lips.

She took a step towards Shen.

“There is no fear,” she said—and it was true for her. He could sense no fear from her. Nor anger—just a serene kind of certainty that he didn't even realize could exist.

Her voice was clear and—amplified by the shape of the arena—cut through the voices of the crowd. She was obviously local, going by her accent.

“There is no pain,” she continued, half the distance between them now covered. The words flowed in a smooth rhythm, the sounds bright and clear.

Shen should have moved, should have ignited his 'saber, but he couldn’t. There was something that kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was the Force? He didn’t know.

“There is no death,” she said, now so close he could have touched her face, had he reached out.

“There is only the Force.” He could feel it around her, gathering like a thunderstorm. She had raised her hands then, the chain clinking between them.

“And through the Force our chains will be broken,” she said—and pulled her hands apart. The chain broke, as easily as if it had been ancient and rusted.

She touched Shen’s face then. “We will be free.”

He wasn’t sure what happened next—something in his mind changed, like a veil being torn down. Her lips brushed against his cheek, and the voice of his master—he hadn’t known he had hated it this much—rang out from the monitor again. A hand brushed against his thigh where his ‘saber was resting, and then, the woman was next to him, tossing it at the screen like a lance.

Then, all was chaos, both in the arena and in Shen’s mind. But there was also a hand in his, and Shen followed the woman outside, the promise of broken chains and freedom still ringing in his ears. 

 

* * *

 

 

Getting out of the arena had been difficult: the crowd had turned into a mob, as Amaya had expected, and started tearing the place apart. The fact that she had a Force Hound clinging to her hand was another difficulty, but she’d lived through worse—the thick red scar on her throat spoke to that.

And now that they were out in the streets, she needed to make sure no one followed them to the current safehouse. They had quite the distance to cover still and in the open like that even with the rioting, someone was bound to spot them. Especially given that she was leading a Force Hound away.

She glanced at him and caught a glimpse of wide, grey eyes set in a pale, oblong face. His nose had obviously been broken at some point and not set properly, and a scar ran from the lower left corner of his tattoo over the corner of his mouth to his chin. He was shorter than her, and thin, with a mop of wavy red hair, and didn't really look the part of a sentient weapon at all.

If not for the letter “shen” in bright blue that took up most of his face, he'd be easy enough to pass off as just another—he was only wearing a padded leather undersuit and not the full armour, and that could pass as a number of other protective suits.

And he still felt wrong in the Force. She had hoped breaking the bond between the slave and master would fix that, but it seemed that it was something separate. Perhaps it would lift in time?

No matter. They didn’t have time for idle musings. She recognized the area they were in—an off-white building that still served as a prayer house stood right on the corner, and if they’d take a few turns they’d be able to find one of the hidden passages from the sewers into the deeper tunnels under Coronet.

“We will have to go through the sewers,” she said, as she started walking purposefully in the direction of the nearest manhole. They’d passed several buildings: the one that had a shop on the ground floor had its blinds drawn, clearly closed for the duration of the coming riot. “Do you have any open wounds? They might get infected.”

The Force Hound shook his head. He was oddly quiet—in fact, he hadn't said a word since they'd got out of the arena.

“Are you afraid of the dark? Or confined spaces?” she persisted. Each question was met with him silently shaking his head.

They dove into one of the narrow alleys, and a moment later Amaya was pulling the hatch to the sewers open. The Force Hound had been slow to release his vise-like grip on her hand, as though afraid she would disappear the moment they weren't touching anymore. He did let go after the second time she asked him to, though, and followed behind her now, still in utter silence.

She wasn’t sure—reading his emotions was made difficult by how wrong and cold he felt in the Force—but she thought something was bothering him. The Force was not helpful enough to tell her what it could be, though she supposed that he simply hadn’t want to admit that he was afraid of some part of the sewers. And the last thing she needed was a panicking sentient weapon wreaking havoc in a confined space.

“You can hold onto my shoulder, if it makes you feel better,” she said. “We just need to be walking single file.”

He still didn’t say a word, but after a moment, she felt fingers curl around her shoulder. She thought she sensed relief and gratitude, though she wasn’t certain—whatever emotions they were, though, they were strong.

Now all she had to do was get them both to safety.

 

* * *

  

They had finally emerged in one of the more run-down districts. Shen had never been there—his master had no reason to visit such a place, after all. They made their way to one of the graffiti-covered houses, broken windows gaping from the lowest level. It looked abandoned, but what did Shen know? Perhaps that was the point.

The interior was not much more inviting than the exterior—there was more graffiti, and the smell indicated that the hallway also served as a public toilet.

They stopped in front of a door on the third floor. The woman knocked several times—Shen thought he noticed a rhythm to it. A moment later the door opened to reveal a short man with dark skin. He seemed to be quite old, his skin creased with age and his hair white.

His face lit up when he saw the woman, only to register alarm when he noticed Shen standing behind her.

“It’s fine,” the woman said quickly. “I did it. Or rather, I undid the thing Vivi told us they do to them.”

The man looked at the woman’s shoulder meaningfully, and Shen realized he was still holding onto it. He pulled his hand away quickly, feeling an all too familiar rush of embarrassment at being caught acting like a pathetic, terrified child.

He looked down—he’d still see if the man chose to attack, but wouldn’t have to see his expression. Not that he needed to. He could guess what they both were likely thinking about him. It wasn’t hard.

“Get inside, you two,” the man said, as he stepped back to let Shen and the woman in. Shen let the woman go first before following after her, and the door closed behind them the instant he was inside. The space was small and narrow, with the three of them crowding it. Shen’s shoulder was brushing against the beige wall. “He doesn’t look like much.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Berezi,” the woman chided. “Don’t tell me you think I look scary.”

“Oh, you look awe-inspiring dear, even in this potato-sack,” Berezi replied indulgently.

“Right, because I haven't been hearing that line since I was fourteen,” the woman snorted. “And we both know that when you say that about me, what you mean is beautiful—which is rather meaningless right now.”

“You know I don’t agree,” Berezi replied. “People are willing to listen to you, Amaya, because you look the part of a heroic warrior-maiden. And I’m willing to bet your new friend wouldn’t have been so quick to follow you, if you looked like me.”

Shen felt his face grow hot at the words—he had noticed how lovely Amaya looked. It was hard to miss.

“Berezi,” Amaya said sternly. “That’s quite enough.” Then, Shen felt her hand touch his shoulder. “Don’t mind him. He’s an old limp dick.”

To Shen’s surprise, the man didn’t seem to take offense. Instead, he barked a short laugh. “Go and talk with Lupe, girl. And show her what you brought.”

  

* * *

 

 

Lupe’s decision was to be expected. They’d move back into the tunnels, as soon as Amaya made sure she had no trackers on her. Berezi would do the same with the Force Hound. The man had not protested—in fact, he still had yet to say anything at all. He simply followed Berezi to a separate room.

The safehouse would be abandoned, though they’d take what the could before. There wasn’t much: weapons, medical supplies and food mostly, hidden all over the place, both in cupboards and in hidey holes under the creaky old floor.

As she changed into new clothes, finally slipping back into a pair of pants and a jacket, she wondered if perhaps he was mute. It would prove to be a problem, but not an insurmountable one, as long as he could write in Basic. And if not, that could be taught.

Then again, so far none of the things they had asked him required a verbal answer. It was entirely possible that he simply hadn’t spoken for some other reason. That scar on his face could make speaking difficult, for one. Fortunately, that was perfectly easy to test.

They met up in the hallway, the Force Hound now dressed in grey overalls. He seemed to be about as at ease as he’d been before—which meant that he looked like he would jump at any loud noise. Berezi had solved the problem of the tattoo for now, by simply covering half of the Force Hound’s face in blue paint. His hair was hidden under a piece of grey, slightly grimy fabric, and the overall effect could pass as a construction worker off from work.

The old man himself was standing next to Lupe, while their cell leader pinned back her thick dark-brown braid to the back of her head in a tight knot. Her strong, tawny hands moved quickly, as she slid pins to secure her hair, the motions so practiced she had long ago stopped needing a mirror.

Both Berezi and Lupe were dressed similarly to Amaya, though Lupe had opted for a vest with a numerous pockets thrown over a shirt, instead of a jacket. They also had serviceable, large backpacks thrown over their shoulders already.

“So, short stuff, what’s your name?” Amaya asked the Force Hound, doing her best to ignore the way he felt in the Force and sound friendly.

He looked down then and muttered, “Shen.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, and lower than she’d expected.

“I don’t mean what you’ve got tattooed on your face,” she said doing her best to sound non-threatening. “Your parents named you something.”

That, apparently, was not a welcome question. The Force Hound flinched, and she didn’t need the Force to sense that he was upset. So, either they should be careful about mentioning his parents, or his name?

“Or something you’d prefer to be called by that’s not a letter,” she added.

He mumbled something in reply. Amaya wasn't sure if she'd caught it, but she thought he might have said that “short stuff” was fine. He had quite a thick accent—she'd heard similar from some new human arrivals from someplace called Coruscant—and between that, the scar affecting his speech and the mumbling she had to guess what he was saying.

Well, at least she knew he could speak.

“Are you sure? I can come up with something else,” she said.

“There’s plenty,” Lupe added, in her low warm voice. “Freckles, Red, Firetop…”

The Force Hound looked even more uncomfortable—Amaya hadn’t thought it was possible, but apparently he managed—and mumbled something which might have been “Whatever you prefer.”

“It’s you who’s going to get called that,” Amaya said. “You can think on the way, and tell us when we’re there.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Shen had no idea where he’d been led to. Once they had entered the sewers again, the old man Berezi had pulled down the piece of cloth that was hiding his hair down over his eyes. By the time they’d let him take it off, they were probably well aware that they had the worst Force Hound to serve a Dictator in the history of the Infinite Empire on their hands. Despite the fact that Amaya had been holding his hand and leading him, he’d likely managed to trip on every single uneven surface and at one point, he’d have fallen had he not hit someone’s shoulder with his face.

Then again, Shen was quite certain it was a well-known fact (and paradoxically, he was also aware that it couldn’t be true, because there’d have been a lot more assassination attempts on his master if that had been the case), and yet here he was. Saved by pure accident—because he was there when Amaya broke out.

She had taken him with her, though—and he really didn’t think that it was just out of pity. Pity might have seen him die free, maybe even when he wouldn’t see it coming. No, Amaya had to see some use in him, even if he had no idea what use he could be with his ‘saber lost.

He looked around—not that he knew where he was, but he wanted to at least see the layout of the place. It was somewhere without windows and somewhat damp. Not a natural cave, though—the walls were too even. He could also see old, metal doors and what seemed to alcoves.

“So, did you figure out what you want to be called, Red?” the shorter woman—Lupe—asked. What she lacked in height, she made up in girth, with broad shoulders and arms corded with muscle.

Shen looked away. He couldn’t really tell what they wanted, which of the choices was the right or safe one. It was probably best if he simply let them decide.

“Come on, you’ve got to like something better,” Amaya added.

“He won’t tell you,” another person said, her voice slightly raspy and much higher than those of the two women.

Shen looked towards where it came, fighting down the sudden panic. A black-skinned rakatan woman looked at him, as she walked through the hallway towards them. She was bundled up in something thick, and probably self-heating to ward off the chill, and she was missing one of her eyes, the stump of an eyestalk hanging uselessly at the side of her head.

It was then that Shen realized who it was exactly—Kha’vir, the daughter and doom of predor Kha’tyr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for anyone interested, here's how Amaya and Shen look like:
> 
> https://spacelingart.com/post/178740010960/patreon-reward-shen-septembers-patreon-reward - Shen  
> https://spacelingart.com/post/176747229977/amaya-rann-julys-patreon-reward-for - Amaya


	2. Where Shen Gets a New Name

The Force Hound stood motionless, watching Kha’vir with wide eyes. The reaction was pretty understandable—the woman was quite notorious among her own species. In fact, now that Amaya thought about it, the rakata being rakata had likely inflated her importance to the resistance movement. And the Force Hound definitely only saw _that._

“She’s not in charge here,” Amaya said. “And you really can tell us what you’d prefer.”

Quite predictably, that led to no verbal response. He did seem to be at least willing to grudgingly believe her, as far as she could decipher what she’d sensed from him.

“Ah, you hadn’t told him about me yet,” Kha’vir said in the tone of someone finding out that the guests hadn’t been offered any beverages yet. “Well then. I am Kha’vir. The renegade daughter and all that. And I also know that you’ve been taught that you’re no more than the letter on your face, just as I’ve been taught my place is laying eggs. Both are lies. You’ll see.”

And with that, she left. Amaya was hardly surprised—given that Kha’vir hadn’t mastered the concept of being reassuring for as long as she’d been with them, it seemed hardly reasonable to expect her to suddenly develop it now.

“And speaking of people in charge, we need to tell Alia about him,” Berezi said,, as he shook his head. He gave the stone walls around them a tired look. “She’ll want to question him.”

“You think he will be more talkative with her than with us?” Lupe asked glancing at the Force Hound doubtfully.

“Well, he could hardly be less talkative than he's been so far, so anything will be an improvement,” Berezi replied with a shrug.

Amaya let them bicker and motioned for the Force Hound to follow her. They could go at it for quite a while, so there was no point in waiting for them to finish. There had been a few times when she had managed to get debriefed and come back and they had still been at it. Not that she suspected it would go so quickly this time. Aside from her own escape, which would need some explaining, there was the Force Hound, who needed to be questioned.

The Force Hound fell in step behind her, as she lead him to one of the chambers that served as Alia’s office and a briefing room. It wasn’t much—two rooms with a small kitchenette and bathroom. One of them served as Alia’s bedroom and the other as the office. The furniture was a mix of old and new, but all was somewhat banged up, having been smuggled into the tunnels. Like most of the inhabited parts of the tunnels, it was lit by bright artificial lights that made everyone seem slightly sickly. The Force Hound’s face seemed gaunt in the light and so pale he might have been a ghost.

In contrast, Alia’s olive-toned skin seemed to be almost greenish, except for the large burn scar that took up half of her face and some of her neck. The hand that rested on the old, beaten-up desk was a scarred claw—Amaya knew that the older woman bore more scars like this from the day of the invasion, when she’d been fighting to evacuate the children entrusted into her care from a burning school. She was dressed in warm, functional clothes in hues of brown and orange—ones that could be fastened and unfastened using only one hand.

“Amaya,” the woman said, as she rose from behind her desk slowly. “You’re back.”

“And I did it,” Amaya replied letting a proud grin slip. “I’ve managed to undo whatever the rakata do to Force Hounds to bind them to their will.”

“That’s good to hear,” Alia replied. “Can you repeat it?”

“I think so,” Amaya said. “But I don’t think I can teach anyone else—not unless you find someone who sees the hidden flaws and weak points like I do.”

She sensed strong emotions from the Force Hound then, though again, she wasn’t sure what exactly they were—it was too confused, too mixed and his Force presence was clouding her senses too much for her to make out anything precise. She didn’t have time at the moment to try and piece anything together, either, with Alia demanding her attention.

“And now you’ve brought him here,” the older woman said, running her healthy hand over the shaved part of her head. “So, tell me—who was your master?”

“Dictator Illai,” the Force Hound answered. His voice still only barely rose above a whisper, and his accent was not making it easy to understand him either. His R's seemed to get swallowed up, and the O at the end was no kind of O she was used to.

It was a very anti-climactic way to state such news.

“Well, well,” Alia said. “And how do you feel about sharing what you know about him with us, my friend?” 

 

* * *

 

 

Once the Force Hound had been lead away to Alia, Kha’vir rejoined Lupe and Berezi. She just couldn’t take the Force Hound’s look of unadulterated terror for much longer without breaking into gleeful laughter. If he was that afraid of her, what kind of a reputation did she have among her own kind?

“You look very happy, Vivi,” Berezi observed.

“Did you-“ she paused. Humans were a bit odd about certain things, so perhaps starting with how she liked that someone was afraid of her would not be the smartest. “I think I’m remembered at the court.”

“Please, you made sure to leave it very dramatically,” Lupe pointed out dryly. “The whole city knew how your father was found in a puddle of his own blood. You even made sure that his death matched the execution of that guy—what was his name again?”

“Inami,” Kha’vir replied. She did miss him, but not nearly as terribly as she had just after he was killed. Over time, she figured that what she’d loved had been the thrill of making her own choice, and Inami had just been conveniently there. That he’d died because of it was starkly unfair, but she’d make sure that all those involved would pay. “It wasn’t just about him, you know? I mean, yes, of course I was angry that he got executed and I was punished like an adulteress, when I wasn’t even married. But it’s not just that.

“I’m not a resource,” she said firmly. “My father’s first Force Hound… She was from a species where women rule. And told me stories about it—he made her my nanny when she’d grown old. And there were other species where men and women are treated the same. So why did it have to be different for me?”

Lupe nodded. “And so you decided to join us.”

Kha’vir nodded. She knew they'd both heard heard the story—she’d told it to Alia and Amaya once, after all. But this would be the first time they heard it from her. And it was nice to be listened to.

“You’ve been a thorn in Illai’s side ever since the empire conquered Corellia,” she said with a smile. “Every time you steal something, or blow something up, or kill one of his minions, you make him look weak. No, you expose his weakness.”

Berezi grinned back. “If you’re at the top, you can only fall down.”

 

* * *

 

 

Shen wasn’t sure how exactly he’d managed to talk for so long. In fact, he didn’t even remember what exactly he’d said to the two women—the time between him admitting who his master had been and now was a sort of a blur filled with panic. He hated talking, and now he hated it even more—he had to repeat himself over and over, because the women had not understood him, even though they were all speaking Basic.

Even after all those years, he still couldn’t make himself intelligible—especially when he was tired or stressed. Between the damned scar over his mouth and the accent, barely anyone could understand him, and he never could learn to speak without it. But at least he was of some use to someone.

“My master fell ill three months ago,” he repeated. “I know, because that’s when his Force presence grew poisonous.”

“Poisonous?” Alia asked,  her remaining eye-brow pulling down into a frown. The scarred part of her face remained immobile.

“Being around him is painful, if you’re Force sensitive,” he replied, trying to speak slowly. He knew he should be speaking louder too, but his voice refused to rise above a whisper. “It made me weaker.”

“Hm, go on,” Alia said, lacing her hands under her chin.

“He can’t sleep without medicine anymore,” Shen added, and immediately sensed Alia’s excitement. _That_ was news she had wanted to hear, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like they could just send him back and ask him to tamper with it? “And he’s… er… more paranoid than usual.”

Which sounded terribly stupid, given how the court worked, but it was true. It was a very fine line between a healthy dose of suspicion and actual paranoia, but Shen was quite certain his master had crossed the line two months ago.

No, not even crossed. He had flown over it at full speed, while ranting about invisible selonian sea faeries plotting to murder him in his sleep.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by the feeling of something being pressed into his hand. He drew back, nearly dropping the object, though he managed to rein in the impulse to punch who ever had touched him.

“Sorry,” Amaya said, giving him a concerned look. “You were all spaced out, and you haven't eaten for quite a while now. It’s only a ration bar, but we managed to at least spice them, so it tastes of something.”

Shen looked at the ration bar blankly—it seemed to be the wrong colour, dull red instead of the usual brown. He bit into it gingerly, and while he wouldn’t say it was the nicest thing he’d ever eaten, it was definitely an improvement over the usual non-taste of ration bars. Which wasn’t saying much—Shen had at one point eaten maggots that tasted better than that.

“Thank you,” he said as he chewed on the bar. And of course, he’d realized only after the fact that he wasn’t going to sound any more distinct with the blocky, half-chewed thing in his mouth. His cheeks were burning with heat again, and his face was likely far too close in colour to his hair.

“No problem,” she said with a smile. “Eat up, Iron-Eyes.”

He blinked, uncertain what to think.

“Oh, you don't like that one either?” Amaya asked. “I guess getting called after your physical features might be getting tedious, but you really need to help me here with coming up with something for you.”

“No, this one is fine,” he said quickly. It was kind of nice, actually. Even if the fact that she paid enough attention to notice his eye colour made him feel uneasy.

“Well, then, Iron-Eyes,” she said, “let’s find a room for you. You look like you’re going to fall asleep on your feet soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

Amaya was still reeling from hearing whom the Force Hound had actually served. Not because she thought for a second that he'd chosen that—the poor thing could hardly handle choosing his own food—but because of the implications that it bore for them. He’d know so many secrets, so many details. Like, for example, the symptoms of the Dictator’s mysterious illness...

She harboured no illusions that even with the Dictator dead, they’d throw off the yoke of the Infinite Empire easily. But that was not going to stop her from trying—because it was not the point. The point was that as long as they stood against the Empire, as futile as it might turn out, they could counter their claim of absolute power.

What power did they have, if even after fifteen years, they had not managed to squash the resistance on Corellia?

She didn’t want to die. She wanted her home planet free. But she’d settle for making others realize they didn’t need to die on their knees.

But for now, she’d eat and see if Alia had any plans for them.

When she found Berezi and Lupe, they were sitting with Kha’vir, who’d apparently found some source of meat that could have been made into a stew. Amaya was not about to try it—Kha’vir was perfectly capable of eating anything provided it was made of meat, and Amaya suspected that if presented with the opportunity, she would still eat her fallen enemies.

“So, Alia ate Red alive?” Berezi asked with a crooked grin.

“No, I put him to bed,” Amaya replied, as she sat down. “And he claims to like Iron-Eyes. I guess getting reminded of your most obvious features can be tedious.”

“I don’t know, I think I could make a few good jokes about missing an eye,” Kha’vir said, baring her small sharp teeth in a facsimile of a human smile.

“Vivi, your jokes are terrible,” Berezi said. “Just like the food you make.”

“That’s the only way I can make sure you’ll never eat it before it’s ready,” Kha’vir answered. Then, she looked at her bowl. “But you’ll need to do a supply run soon. We’ve one more mouth to feed now.”

“I’ll hit my usual contacts,” Berezi said. “It's harvest season, so we might get some real food on the black market.”

“Do that,” Lupe said. “I’ll come as back-up. Amaya needs to stay though—after her recent performance, everyone will recognize her.”

“What if you cut her hair? I’ve been told it changes the appearance of humans significantly,” Kha’vir asked, examining Amaya with her one eye.

“Oh, believe me, no one will be fooled,” Berezi snorted. “They’ll remember the eyes, not the hair.”

Lupe sighed. “It’s worth a try. You could pass yourself off as a family member, maybe.” Then, hastily, she added, “But not yet. We can’t risk sending you out anytime soon and attracting attention.”

Amaya nodded. “I expected as much—I hadn’t planned on doing anything so dramatic, but they brought me directly to the arena. And then it was the only chance I’d have to escape.” She took a strand of her hair into her fingers and looked it. “Once you tell me I’m clear to go, I’ll cut it. No sense in doing it now when it’ll just grow back.”

 

* * *

 

 

Alia replayed what the Force Hound had said once more on her small portable recorder, as she started considering their plans for the future. The fact that the Dictator was ill and even his Force Hound had not been admitted to his chambers was intriguing. According to the man, only Force blind slaves had been allowed to tend to the rakata. If they’d managed to slip someone in…

Then again, anyone planted in the palace might have taken months to earn enough trust to be admitted to the Dictator’s presence in his weakened state. Still, there were other ways they could use the Dictator’s weakness.

And that was without considering the fact that according to Kha’vir, all other rakata directly beneath the Dictator would be looking at any sign of weakness that’d let them take over. If they were lucky, they’d start killing each other before the Dictator was even dead.

Of course, that would still work best if the Dictator started showing signs of weakening significantly…

Which brought her back to the original problem of how to get someone inside the palace. Although, perhaps there was some way of arranging for the Dictator to get sicker without anyone having to get too close to him?

She’d have to talk with Kha’vir and the Force Hound again.


	3. Where the Definition of Success Is Smuggling Two Space Pigs

The riots had left their mark on the city. A number of houses and shops had broken windows and doors, and the signs of recent fires were still visible in a few places. There was new graffiti, proclaiming “traitor” in bold letters and bright colours here and there, too. It was a sight they’d seen now and again, over the years.

Every now and then, the people of Corellia would remind the invaders they were not completely under their boot. Then, the rakatan overlord would send out his troops to capture those who’d stand against his rule. Sometimes, they were successful, but on more occasions they'd come back empty-handed.

Recently, they’d taken to simply grabbing anyone, if they couldn’t find the actual culprits. Rumour had it that Dictator Illai thought that would show that all were responsible for the misdeeds of the few.

What it was doing was telling people that they'd nothing to lose. Even if they played by the rules, they could get murdered as an example. Or at least that was how Berezi saw it.

But it was only relevant at this point inasmuch as he and Lupe had to be careful not to get caught. That in itself was not new. It had been so for years. But if the Dictator was losing patience, he might decide to take more drastic measures than the usual torture. (It really made Berezi wonder—had the idiot not learned anything at all from all the times people had admitted to nonsense just for the pain to stop? Or just to make sure that there would be no pain?)

The warehouse they stopped at was no different than most others—a boxy building that bore the scars of the recent and previous riots, but it had held. Transports were going in and out.

A selonian woman stood by one of the side-entrances, her lithe body covered in reddish fur and not much else. Then again, Berezi only knew she was a woman because he knew her personally, so he figured that preserving decency was not much of a worry for a species with fur.  

She motioned for them to follow her inside, when they got close enough, and once the door closed behind them, said, “I have a few crates that sadly will have gone missing.”

She motioned towards a stack of crates in the corner. Others were placed in such a way that they were blocked from view in high stacks, if one entered from the front. They didn’t block the air conditioning, however, and Berezi felt the chill. The smells were surprisingly faint, compared to what he remembered from when he’d owned a restaurant and dealt with deliveries often. It never ceased to amaze him how much had changed since then.

“And we have news from your children,” Berezi replied. “They miss you, but they’re safe. Your cousin is with them.”

She nodded. “Do you have a transport?” 

 

* * *

 

 

“You should join me and Amaya, as we meditate on the futility of life sometime,” Kha’vir told the Force Hound. He flinched, but otherwise didn’t react, when she approached him. A reaction she likely should have expected, all things considered.

He was, she had to admit, something of a disappointment. Such a pitiful, terrified creature.  Or perhaps she’d been unfair to expect him to be like Simurgh. As far as she knew, her nanny had been quite unique.

If she hadn’t, perhaps the Empire would be a completely different place by now.

And she wouldn’t be living in cold, damp tunnels. It wasn’t that she regretted her choices, even if they meant taking a number of additional steps just to keep herself from hibernating or catching cold after cold after cold, but she wished she’d never had to make them sometimes. Just like she wished the people she now lived with didn't have to hide underground.

The tunnels had been made as livable as they could be with rooms that had heating and light, but still, they were mostly surface creatures and needed light. Plus, with the danger of discovery, one could only make small steps to make their rooms more home-like, ones that could be easily packed.

The Force Hound hadn’t even done that yet. His room was bare, almost unlived in.. There was neatly made bed in one corner and a chest that doubled as a nightstand and a table. One of the first things Kha’vir had done was nick some crates to serve as chairs. And then she started to learn how to make pillows—perhaps the Force Hound would like one?

She considered the Force Hound again. He _was_ a pitiful thing, true, but she’d been an angry girl, once. Everyone could be more than they were at any given moment—the question was if they chose to avoid the hardship or faced it.

After a moment, she sat down next to the Force Hound and said, “I will tell you about my nanny. Take whatever lesson you want from it that you wish, or none at all.”

He continued staring at his hands, the tension visible in his whole posture.

“She was a Force Hound, like you,” she said. “Though, she wasn’t human. She was a noghri. Her people are matriarchal, do you know?

“They tried to hide her," she continued. “But eventually, she was taken away. My father chose her as his Force Hound—and she was good. She grew old.”

The next part brought a smile to her face. She could almost hear the low, raspy voice and feel the smooth, dexterous hands on her head.

“And my father thought that taking away her ability to harm him physically had made her his weapon and nothing else,” she said. “But she told me stories. And had the other slaves tell me them. Such small things, words. And yet, here I am, because my nanny told me that I could be more.

“That I’m not a clay doll, molded by my father to bear descendants for him, but my own person.” She paused. “Simurgh was not a weapon. She was my _mother_.”

She rose then, taking the bittersweet longing for the old noghri woman with her. Simurgh would probably have handled this differently, but she had died years ago. Still, sometimes, Kha’vir thought she could sense something like a ghost of her presence in the Force.

Some things died easily. Some lived on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The speeder was civilian and unmarked, though not new. The colour it was painted had been a type of dark purple that’d been in vogue on Corellia a few years ago, though now it was hidden by a layer of grime. It looked exactly like the kind of transport a large family might use for longer trips, and this was precisely what Lupe intended to use to their advantage.

Together with Berezi and Dorae, they had loaded up several crates of supplies into the speeder, and then as a final touch, they’d placed two parse-sus carcasses inside it. One, wrapped in a blanket, was lying between the crates, propped up in a way that might suggest someone sleeping. The other was sitting next to Lupe, in the passenger’s seat, carefully wrapped up in layers of dresses, skirts and shawls. Several other touches made it appear to be an old woman.

On closer examination, it would be easy enough to figure out it was anything but an old woman, but Lupe had an idea on how to make sure no one was willing to examine it closer. She had no doubt someone would stop them and try to search the vehicle. So soon after the riots, the police forces were going to be at least trying to pretend they wanted to catch someone. The trick would be deterring from checking their transport too thoroughly.

Soon enough, she had to stop by a check-point. It wasn’t particularly impressive—clearly, it was something made hastily, to give the impression something was being done in face of the recent riots. A tired-looking security officer asked her to step out.

“Look, I’d love to, but my mother-in-law and father-in-law are ill,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Redpox. You know how infectious it is.”

The security officer glanced at the parse-sus carcass, slumped bonelessly over the seat. Then, he looked at the transport’s storage compartment and shook his head.

“Just get them to a hospital,” he said, as stepped away from the window. “The last thing we need is redpox breaking out in the city. And for crying out loud, don’t pull down that window until you’re there.”

Lupe nodded and pulled the window up as the man retreated further. Maybe the scare would make him rethink who he was serving.  

 

* * *

 

 

Lupe and Berezi had not been the only ones on a supply run. But whereas theirs had been for food, the other cell that they ran into in the part of the tunnels that served as storage had been on a much more dangerous mission. They had been tasked with resupplying the Resistance with weapons.

Now they were all gathered in one big room dividing their supplies between those they’d take, and those that would get passed on to other cells. Once they were done, the room would be left empty, likely for months—others like it would be used instead. Even now Lupe didn’t know all of them: they’d been formed early on, back during the first colonization wave that had brought selonians to Corellia. As such, it retained an irregular, cave-like look with both walls and floors made of stone. It wasn’t the coziest and it certainly didn’t make for great storage, but then, it likely was never intended for any of those purposes in the first place.

“Well, you know, there are always complications,” Cal said, brushing his hand through his short, messy black hair. He was a handsome man, with the kind of looks that made it hard to guess how old he was exactly. “Turns out, they changed the roster for the guards, and it’s a new guy today, instead of the one who’s working for us.”

“And?” Lupe asked with a grin. She could tell they’d been successful, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t enjoy the story of how they did it. After all, she’d picked a blaster from one of the crates they’d brought already.

“So, he’s from some other world too,” Cal continued with a grin. “Coruscant? Something like that. Anyway, I chat him up—the usual ‘what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?’ We go on a bit back and forth, and he’s giving me _that_ look. You know the one. He’s into me.

“So, I tell him that we could maybe go somewhere more private, if you know what I mean. And he’s all ‘no, duty and stuff, they'll have my head’, and I keep on hinting and he agrees eventually, because let’s be fair, who could resist me?”

“I did,” Lupe snorted.

“You’re the outlier, Lupe,” Cal answered, patting her arm in a comradely manner. “So, we step aside into the office. And I don’t want our guy getting in trouble, so I can’t kill this guy. Which mean I’ve to keep him busy—not really a problem for a man of my skill—but let me tell you, I had to teach him everything.”

“How terrible for you,” Berezi snorted. “Seducing a doe-eyed virgin for the cause. You do realize that a more experienced person wouldn’t be so eager to jump at your distraction, don’t you?”

Cal sighed, his expression turning into an exaggeratedly sad one. “You sure know how to ruin someone’s success, old man.”

Lupe stifled a sigh. This was exactly the kind of statement that made Berezi sink his teeth into a subject like one of those slightly insane guard hounds that were still popular in the countryside.

“I suppose what we're calling 'success' now tells us what sort of days we're living in,” the old man sighed in his best ancient wise man voice.

“Well, then clearly those are interesting times,” Cal said with a grin. “Given that we’re also calling smuggling a parse-sus dressed up as a woman a success.”

Lupe shook her head. “If it gets you fed, why are you complaining?”

“I’m not complaining, he’s complaining,” Cal shot back. “We got the weapons, you got the food, no one was caught. So what’s there to complain about?”

“What kind of an ambition is ‘we didn’t get caught’?” Berezi grumbled.

“An achievable one,” Lupe said. “A small victory is still a victory. And they add up. We’ll get our big one eventually, old man.”

“Hopefully before I’m dead,” Berezi replied, but he did turn his attention back to unloading the supplies and away from Cal. Maybe they’d be done today after all. 

 

* * *

 

 

One of the crates they’d smuggled out contained sweet grain bars—sugary things with dried fruit that Berezi had detested ever since childhood. He was aware that other people did enjoy them. Usually, he’d trade his share for something else, like an additional ration of alcohol or a future favour, or a number of other things.

Iron-Eyes, apparently, found them perfectly palatable, given how quickly his had disappeared. He seemed about ready to retreat back into his room, taking a step back from the door in which he’d been standing so far into his room. True, the corridor wasn’t the nicest place to talk in, given that it was poorly lit and cold, but Berezi doubt this was what sent Iron-Eyes packing.

“Slow down,” Berezi said. “They’re not going to disappear when you look away.”

Iron-Eyes appeared to find this claim not reassuring in the least. Given that he was long past the age where object permanence might be an issue, Berezi suspected the problem lay somewhere in the dark lands of being raised as a living weapon by the rakata.

“Really, no one is going to take that from you,” he added. “Here, take mine. I don’t like them anyway.”

Iron-Eyes seemed to distrust the statement and only took the bar after a moment had passed, and it failed to grow tentacles or spontaneously turn into a tooka and escape. Then, in a matter of seconds, it was gone too.

“And it’s not even poisoned,” Berezi added.

That at least got Iron-Eyes to react. The former Force Hound covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a chuckle.

“I see you’ve lost the ability to speak in my absence again,” Berezi continued.

“No,” Iron-Eyes replied. “You were enjoying yourself talking?”

Berezi had to admit this was actually pretty amusing. “Well, it’s good to see some young people still have manners and let the older generation have their fun.”

Iron-Eyes seemed to be rather doubtful about something, but true to form said nothing, so Berezi was left to guess what it was. And all of a sudden, he had to think of his youngest son. Young Eder, who had died because he wouldn’t tell anyone he was wounded. Who had bled out silently because there were more important things to worry about.

And now, there was another man before him—and he may not have been bleeding out, but he was bottling all that pained him, all that ailed him and hiding it as deep as another might hide a treasure.

Berezi hadn't been able to save his son. Eder had been dead long before his old cell had made it to his, his body cold and his shirt red with blood.

It was not a conscious decision—just a string of loose thoughts, connections in his mind made in seconds.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you, Eder,” he said, not even realizing he’d slipped and used his son’s name. “But if you want to, I will listen.” 

 

* * *

 

 

They had moved into Shen's room, with Berezi sitting on the bed and Shen perching on the chest. He didn’t really need to sit, but the old man was going to get a crick in his neck if he had to look up at Shen all the time. He caught Berezi inspecting it, as if he expected something, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Had he been supposed to make changes? No one had told him to.

Shen had listened in silence to Berezi’s story. It was a jumbled thing—bits about the death of his son interwoven with stories of his life. He didn’t sound at all like Shen. For one, he hadn't deserved to die—but he had.

And Shen was alive, because the universe was a cruel place, and spared those who didn’t deserve it, and ate up the kind and gentle ones. He’d seen it—he’d seen which of the tributes lived to become Force Hounds and which did not. Only those who had learned the truth that universe was dark, cold and uncaring; that you were but a mote of dust that mattered nothing; that if you didn’t fight for what was yours you died; those lived.

But the thoughts didn’t sound right anymore. He couldn't but think of Amaya in the arena, the chains binding her wrists snapping with a clang.

She could have left him behind. Had she not taken his hand, had she not kissed him, he’d be dead. The crowd would have overwhelmed him, and he’d have died—a stand-in for his master.

Saving him had been of little benefit. A bit of information they could have gained through other means. A warrior without a sword, whom they did not dare send to fight. A man with a needle.

It was the kind of kindness that would eat one up, in his experience. And yet, there she was. Alive and beautiful, brilliant in the Force. He hadn’t known that you could burn so brightly and live—by all rights, her own fire should have eaten her up, and left nothing but bones.

He couldn’t be like her. If there ever had been a fire in him, it had burned out ages ago. He was the ash that had been left behind. Dust in the uncaring cosmos.

But maybe he could be more like the man who had bled out so that others might live. 

 

* * *

 

 

Alia Antilles rarely met with other leaders. It was safer that way—if they were gathered in one place, and something went wrong, and they were found, then there’d be no one left to lead. But it was unavoidable that they had to meet once in a while. Especially when it came to plans this big.

And so they’d met in one of the safehouses for the first time in months. There were lookouts on the streets, and guards carefully hidden in the building, and their room had several escape routes. It was also plain: they sat together at a beaten round table on old chairs. The walls were covered in unfashionable grey wallpaper, torn in places where Betl and Alia’s people had checked for any bugs.

“We can kill Illai,” Alia announced, looking around the room.

Betl Duine looked thoughtful, likely evaluating where her network of informants would come in. The old woman looked deceptively harmless, her silver hair cropped sensibly short to halo her dark face. The lines around her mouth spoke of someone who smiled often and freely, as did the crow’s feet next to her brown eyes.

Nour Novar seemed curious, tapping zher brown-skinned fingers against the table impatiently. Zher broad, round-featured face was showing impatience. Zhe’d have something to do soon enough, given just what exactly Alia’s plan—or well, beginnings of a plan—entailed. Zher delicate features were animated as usual, as zher black eyes darted around the room.

Thel Beli was smirking under his blond handlebar mustache. He’d be disappointed, if he expected a larger military action, but Alia thought he was too smart to think that.

“Amaya Rann, as you undoubtedly have already heard, has managed to free a Force Hound,” she continued coolly. “As it turns out, Illai wanted his own Hound to execute her, which as you might imagine gave us some unexpected intel. And among those is that only Force blind slaves are attending him. No one else is allowed to see him. No one else is allowed to bring his medicine to him.”

“That would let us sneak someone into the palace as a slave and tamper with the medicine,” Betl said thoughtfully. She scratched her chin thoughtfully. “I think I can arrange that. Iella—one of my agents—has a contact inside the palace.”

“And you will want my people to come up with something hard to detect and easy to smuggle,” Nour added. “We could use a sample of Illai’s medicine for that.”

Betl nodded. “I’ll see what Iella and her contact can do.”

“And that means Alia and I will have to find the appropriate person for the job, doesn’t it?” Thel asked.

Betl grinned then. “Oh, I’ve just the man for this job.”


	4. Where Cal Gets a Crash Course in Being Furniture

Cal had to admit that he found his future mission thrilling. Sure, he’d be risking everything, but if he did it right… Really, what kind of a person would say no to being the one to actually murder the old rakatan bastard of a Dictator? Besides, he was of the opinion than a little bit of danger made life a lot more fun.

Still, before he got to the _fun_ part, he needed to prepare. And he was going to prepare with one of Alia’s cells—or specifically, with the one rakatan defector they had. Sure, it meant the tunnels, and those were damp even in the sections that were remade into living quarters. They weren’t really so bad, he had to admit, as far as underground living went.

Sort of gloomy, and the artificial lighting gave some people a headache and made everyone look ill, but those were minor inconveniences compared to being dead.

Cal stepped into one of the rooms—it was sparsely furnished, with only one table, an old couch and several chairs. They were all occupied by the people he'd be working with now.

“Here I am!” he announced, spreading his arms, as Lupe’s cell plus Kha’vir looked at him with various shades of amusement. The skinny little Force Hound Amaya had rescued seemed more interested in the floor. Perhaps someone else would have been insulted, but Cal winked at Amaya instead and added, “So, how much did you miss me, Tookie?”

Amaya looked around theatrically, and then turned to Berezi, “Did you hear a nerf moan? I thought I did for a moment.”

He did catch her lips quirking upwards slightly, and the look she gave him a moment later was amused. “That’s a no, then?” he asked. “I guess I will have to live with a broken heart.”

“For the two hours it takes you to find someone to put it back together,” Amaya said, with a hint of fond exasperation creeping into her tone.

“Well, what can I say?” Cal replied with a helpless shrug. “I’m easy to please.”

That earned him a friendly punch on the shoulder, gentle enough to not even sting a bit. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” Amaya said. “Otherwise, I’d tell you you're not here for fun—ah, wait, you’re not.” She put her hand on his back and pushed him gently towards Kha’vir. “Off you go to work, Mr Smooth.”

He caught Lupe whispering something to the Force Hound, who nodded quickly.

Cal grinned at Berezi then and whispered mock-conspiratorially, “Did you hear? She thinks I’m smooth.”

“Ah, so that is human flirting,” Kha’vir observed in an amused tone. “I must say it is much more pleasing to listen to than the rakatan version.”

Cal gave her a mournful look. “I think I’ve just been damned by faint praise.”

  

* * *

 

 

Apparently, Illai’s taste in slaves had not changed since Kha’vir had left the court. That is, he absolutely didn't care how they looked unless they were blue. What Illai had against blue had been the subject of many rumours—Kha’vir’s personal favourite had been the one about an exotic drink and a troupe of dancers.

In any case, Cal was definitely not blue, but rather a lighter sort of pink-beige, though not as pale as Iron-Eyes. Illai wouldn’t care about his head-hair or facial hair, so there was no need to cut or shave any of those, since the hair on Cal’s head was only long enough to be artfully swooshy rather than get into his eyes, and the beard was neatly trimmed into a goatee. And scars were common enough on slaves, so no-one would pay attention to the one that marred Cal’s carefully trimmed eyebrows.

Still, the Force Hound had confirmed Cal was not going to be turned away, and so it now fell to them to instruct him how to play that role. He seemed ill-suited to it, but then, Kha’vir had not seen how good an actor he was yet.

Unless his entrance had been not just a show, but an act, in which case he was quite a superb one. But no matter what the truth was, she’d find out sooner or later.

“The first thing you need to learn, is how to act as if you’re part of the room you’re in,” she said. Cal was standing in front of her, leaning against the wall casually with his hands in his pockets. “You do not want to be seen, or heard, or noticed in any other way.”

“Like Redtop over there?” Cal asked, giving the Force Hound a doubtful look, who in turn flinched and looked away. Kha’vir had no doubt he’d have preferred to be invisible, but the effect he achieved was quite the opposite. A comatose blindworm would have sensed his unease.

“No, not like him at all,” Kha’vir replied. “Force Hounds need to be seen. They are a status symbol. You will be just a piece of furniture that can conveniently do things.”

Cal frowned, and scratched his chin, before finally nodding slowly. Then he winked at her. “Furniture, you say? I can be anything you want, so if that’s your wish…”

Kha’vir gave him her best look of polite ladylike bafflement. It was a really good one, too—the kind that indicated that the person before her was a very strange specimen, and she was being very polite in tolerating them and their antics.

He got up from where he was sitting and moved to the wall. There, he lowered his head and let his arms fall against his sides—a good submissive posture. But unlike the Force Hound, he breathed evenly and remained calm.

It was quite astounding really—the expansiveness was gone, as if drawn completely inward. Had Kha’vir not seen the man acting so extroverted moments ago, she’d have not suspected he could be like that at all.

“Not bad, don’t you think?” she turned to the Force Hound, who nodded quickly.

Perhaps she should get him something to write, given that he’d have to communicate somehow soon…

 

* * *

  

Watching and listening to Cal was making Shen feel exhausted, but he also couldn't help wishing he were more like that. Somehow, every comment that would've made Shen feel tiny and stupid just rolled off him, and he shot back things gleefully, as if the words had been the nicest of compliments. He’d even shrugged off Kha’vir’s disapproval.

But then, the whole situation was frankly puzzling. Amaya had been radiating happiness and warmth, even as she compared Cal to a nerf, and Kha’vir seemed to be impressed, even as she sighed and indicated in other ladylike ways that she was annoyed. Maybe if it had only been Amaya, he’d have suspected it had something to do with Cal’s good looks, but Kha’vir likely didn’t find humans attractive.

It made him feel even more hopelessly lost than before.

“So, next lesson,” Kha’vir said brightly. “You’re being very nice and standing where I can see you—but that’s because you know I’ve only one eye, isn’t it?”

Cal nodded with a thoughtful expression. “If you had both, you’d have a blind spot right in front of you, right?”

“Exactly,” she said. “You need to stand always a bit to the side. Standing directly in front of us is a challenge. You want to always be in our visual range—never do anything that looks like sneaking up. That tends to make us twitchy.”

Cal nodded. “So, if we assume our silent friend here is a rakata, I should be standing… here?” he asked, moving slightly to Shen’s left. He noted, with some surprise that the Force Hound was only a head shorter than him—he somehow seemed to be smaller.

Kha’vir nodded, before turning to Shen. “Can you move to the side, Iron-Eyes?”

Shen nodded, and for a while, he and Cal were doing something that was almost like a very awkward dance. Eventually, Cal seemed to get the hang of it, though.

“Now it’s your turn,” Kha’vir said, and Shen cast a quick look around if perhaps the room was showing a new, quick escape route, or maybe there was a rancor to fight against… But it seemed he wouldn't get out of talking so easily.

Cal gave him an encouraging look. Then, when Shen failed to say anything, he gave him a puzzled one.

“You should be worried if a rakatan lady acts like lady Kha’vir did moments ago,” he finally said.

“The ‘lady’ is not necessary,” Kha’vir said.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want a rakatan lady teasing me,” Cal said with a grin. “That might offend someone, and an offended rakata is one that wants to kill you.”

Shen shook his head, half-expecting Kha’vir to explain, but she seemed to be waiting for him to do it. It was… odd. Disconcerting. Like she was assuming he knew what he was doing, instead of believing she knew better than him.

“She was disapproving,” he said. Then after a moment, he decided to correct himself, “She was acting disapproving. If you were in the palace, that’d mean you did something that made her mad.”

“Or she wants to take out her previous frustration on you,” Kha’vir added. “It might be just that you will be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that was a pertinent point to make.”

“So… uh… just to be sure I got everything—sorry, man, can you maybe speak up a bit next time?—if a rakatan lady starts sighing and doing the thing with rising her eyestalks like that,” Cal said, mimicking the movement of Kha’vir’s eye with a finger, “I should… let’s say remember someone more important than her needs me right now, or grovel very convincingly?”

“Which would depend on the lady,” Kha’vir said. “But generally, stop what you are doing, grovel for a moment and then find a new place to be fast.”

Shen hesitated for a moment. There was a point they were forgetting, but he didn’t think he should interrupt. That’d just annoy Kha’vir and she might finally decide she’d been nice to him long enough.

“You wanted to say something?” Cal asked him just as he finished the thought.

“No- I mean, um…” he hesitated and plunged on. “Rakatan men show they’re annoyed differently.”

“That is a very good point too,” Kha’vir said warmly.

If this continued, Shen would probably start wondering if the Force hadn’t decided to make him competent on a whim.

 

* * *

 

 

It was almost past dinner time once Kha’vir declared Cal could take a break. She had him practicing little scenarios with her and the Force Hound relentlessly. Cal didn’t mind all that much, though he was getting somewhat hungry, but the skinny thing looked like he might pass out.

Cal kept on wondering if this was some sort of an act to make people underestimate the Force Hound. If so, it was quite a good one—after all, Cal couldn’t tell if the man was pretending or not. Surely, no one could be _that_ insecure? And yet, nothing indicated that the Force Hound was acting.

As always, when his gut and brain disagreed, Cal decided to follow his gut feeling—and that was telling him that the Force Hound was not pretending.

“So, I know it’s kind of late,” he said with a friendly smile, “but we weren’t introduced. I’m Cal. Man of many talents.”

“Sh-,” the Force Hound started and then hesitated. “Iron-Eyes.”

He coloured almost instantly, pale skin suddenly matching his hair. He was almost glowing. And looking at his feet. Perfect picture of total embarrassment, completely at odds with him being supposedly a murder-slave.

“Thank you for the lessons,” Cal said with a small bow. “And see you tomorrow for more of the same. But now I’m off to eat something before my stomach decides to assault me for abusing it so.”

It didn’t even get a hint of a smile out of Iron-Eyes. Well, Cal was going to leave him alone now, as he turned to search for food. Berezi was the likeliest source to have something nice stashed away, so his search brought him to the old man first.

“Vivi is being hard on you, huh?” the old man said, tossing a nutrient bar at him. Cal caught it deftly and bit into it with gusto.

“You’re the only person I know who’d give her a cutesy nickname like that,” he observed once he devoured half of the bar.

“Says the man who calls Amaya ‘Tookie’,” Berezi replied shaking his head. “I always figured she’d rather not be reminded of her family constantly, and she’s named after her father. Hence, Vivi.”

“Hm, you do have a point,” Cal agreed. “I’ll ask her if I can call her that tomorrow.”

“Hoping that you will flatter her out of being hard on you, young man?” Berezi asked with a fond grin.

Cal matched it. “On the contrary. I hope she’ll put even more effort in teaching me, since she’ll want to see me again.”


	5. Where Everyone Agrees that Dictator Illai Is Terrible and Shouldn’t Be Listened To

Shen had expected someone to point out that he was useless sooner rather than later. It was fairly obvious, after all. The only thing he really knew how to do was fight, and he couldn’t really offer to do that, unless perhaps he wanted to demonstrate he was not just useless, he was also a moron.

He was helping Cal, but that would end, and in any case, Kha’vir was doing most of it. He was just following her instructions most of the time.

So, when Berezi asked him if he could do anything useful, Shen had sat silently and stared at his hands. Clearly, his tactic of hiding in his room and hoping people would forget him had not worked out.

“Come on, Iron-Eyes,” the old man sighed, though he didn’t sound annoyed. He didn’t look annoyed either, his brown eyes and face showing only concern instead. “There has to be something. Maybe you know something about growing food in the dark? Or, I don't know, fixing clothes?”

“I can do that,” he said quickly. “Fix clothes, I mean.”

Berezi seemed to be rather surprised. “Seriously? Your master was so cheap he had you fix your own clothes?”

That was not the answer Shen had expected. It actually had never occurred to him that it somehow reflected badly on his former master.

“He had many flaws,” he said. And nothing happened, so he added after a moment, “He was so cheap he kept me as his Force Hound, instead of getting a better one.”

“You… ah… don’t say?” Berezi said awkwardly. Clearly, Shen could add joking to the list of things he shouldn’t try. “And I suppose he told you that, Iron-Eyes?”

Shen nodded.

“Now, I’m not about to encourage you to return to your career as a murder-slave,” Berezi said with forced humour, “but has it occurred to you that one of his flaws might have been a dick of enormous proportions, and his opinion on your skills or lack of them is generally likely to be rubbish?”

It had, in fact, occurred to Shen a number of times that Dictator Illai was a dick. Perhaps even an enormous one. Somehow, he’d never considered it might mean he was being a dick when he said Shen was useless though.

Perhaps, if he had been one of the tributes that had been fought over, he might have believed Berezi that that was it. That he wasn’t a waste of space. But he knew better—and the old man would realize soon enough too. 

 

* * *

 

 

Kha’vir decided she liked Cal. It probably was a pretty common sentiment, given that he was an amusing man. And he'd asked what to call her, instead of just bestowing her with a nickname.

“You can call me Kha’vir—I’ve been called that most of my life—or Vivi,” she said. “Perhaps Kha’vir will be more prudent for now. We don’t want you slipping up and betraying yourself by calling me a nickname no slave would use.”

Cal nodded, as he studied her. She wondered what exactly he was thinking about and what he’d noticed. He seemed to be quite an observant man. Maybe she’d ask him later. “You’re very pragmatic.”

“I’ve seen what surrendering yourself to your emotions and letting them rule you does,” she replied. “It’s harder, true, but I think it’s worth it. I’d rather not end up cackling and frying others alive because my food was a bit cold. It’s all so… pointless.”

Cal grinned at her then. “I couldn’t agree more. Not getting fried by a cackling rakata is one of my favourite things.”

“How interesting, it happens to be one of my favourite things too,” Kha’vir replied with a grin. “Now, let’s go over what you’ve learned so far.”

Cal grinned back. “Of course. I’d rather come back alive, after all.”

“I’d rather see you back safely alive too,” Kha’vir said. “It’s nice to know that we have common goals here, isn’t it?”

“It certainly puts my mind to ease that we do,” he said. “But I don’t think Iron-Eyes likes me as much.”

Kha’vir considered her answer. Rakata, as a rule, could rarely sense the feelings of others. It was an odd quirk in their Force sensitivity. She, as far as she knew, was something of an exception—the better she knew someone, the better she was at sensing what they felt. She didn’t know Iron-Eyes at all.

“I think he is jealous of you,” Kha’vir eventually replied. “In the sense that you’re what he desperately wants to be, but cannot. But he will not sabotage you because of it. His malice is directed inward, not outward.”

Cal looked at her and then shook his head. “That's above my pay grade.”

Kha’vir nodded and rose. “So, enough idle chatter for now. Let’s focus on what you can do.”

 

* * *

 

 

Amaya had realized that she’d have to hide after what she’d done in the arena. She thought she was prepared for it, had planned what she’d do to make sure she could join the action again. And yet, it seemed it was not enough. She was distracted, and for the first time in years, was seeing cracks and flaws in everything at once. The points where the walls were weaker, old wounds waiting to reopen in people, moments in conversations when a word could change everything…

A human can get used to a lot. A human could get used to a lot. Certainly, knowing that the world was much more fragile than it seemed had not made Amaya incapable of living in it. Knowing how to break something, knowing how to change something, didn’t mean she should do it.

Berezi and Lupe could have been convinced to take her with them. She sensed the moment where she could have made her case—they wanted to be convinced at that particular moment. But she hadn’t done it.

Because, in the end, her presence with them would have caused more harm than good. That she wanted to be out, to fight, to do _something_ would have been obvious enough without the Force not so helpfully pointing out every possibility she had.

So she had finally locked herself in the small room where she’d been living whenever they had to retreat to the tunnels. It had the few possessions she’d managed to save from before the invasion, a few little trinkets: a ring and a locket, and a holo.

Her mother grinned proudly there: a handsome woman with a warm smile. Amaya was laughing and so was her little brother—one of the few holos where they’d managed to get him to smile. Now, it was all she had of him.

She didn’t know if he was alive—what Kha’vir had told her about the fate of Force sensitive children in the Infinite Empire didn’t give her much hope. If he was alive, though…

If he was alive, then he had to be a Force Hound, like Iron-Eyes. And if that was true, then she had the means of saving him now.

But what good was that, if she had no way of finding him?

A knock on the door interrupted her gloomy thoughts, so she turned off the holoprojector and put it away. Her ghosts were her own to face.

Behind the door, she found Iron-Eyes, looking as eager to be interacting with anyone as always. Which was not at all. No, that was a bit unfair—he seemed to find talking to her and Berezi (or being talked to by them, to be precise) only as unpleasant as having his teeth pulled rather than having open-heart surgery without anesthetics.

“You weren’t there for lunch,” he said quickly and held out two nutrient bars for her to take.

“Oh, I didn’t notice it was that time,” Amaya replied, taking the bars from him. “Do you want to come in?”

She stepped aside, and after a moment’s hesitation Iron-Eyes entered her room. He didn’t seem to get any less tense once inside, but he also didn’t appear to grow more nervous, so that was probably a good sign.

“It must be different here from what you’re used to,” Amaya said. “I suppose you probably had more to do?”

“If my master didn’t need me, I was supposed to train,” Iron-Eyes answered.

“I guess it must be boring here?” Amaya asked.

“No!” he replied quickly. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m- I’m not complaining!”

“It’s okay,” Amaya said, holding her hands up. “Really—I was just worried you might be bored. I won’t be angry with you if you are.”

He didn’t seem reassured enough to stop being nervous, but at least he wasn’t panicking anymore. Amaya couldn't help but wonder what was it that made him so—and if Tamid, if he was alive, would be like this too. She didn’t want to think of her little brother being terrified of even speaking with other people.

“Please, don’t,” he said. “You shouldn’t worry about me—I’m…”

He stopped when Amaya put her finger over her lips and watched her with wide eyes, although she suspected he wouldn’t have been able to finish the thought regardless.

“Don’t say that,” she replied. “Look, I don’t know what makes you think you’re not worthy of kindness—but whatever it is, it’s not true. Kindness is not something you should have to earn. It’s something you are given without asking, because it’s the right thing to do. No one should suffer.”

He didn’t answer—it was almost as if the idea was completely foreign to him. Like he’d never even considered that this was possible, let alone how interactions should work. She drew her hand away.

“You’re fighting the rakata,” he eventually said. “You will make them suffer, won’t you?”

“Only because they see me and other people as property, and hold onto what they think so tightly that taking away what was not theirs to take will hurt them,” Amaya replied. “Well, that and they won’t go away and let us govern ourselves because we asked nicely.”

  

* * *

 

 

Shen wasn’t sure he believed Amaya. He wasn’t about to argue with her—she’d change her mind about him soon enough without his conscious help. He could manage being unlikeable, annoying, and pathetic without trying, really. Even he didn’t like himself.

But for now, at least, she seemed not to mind spending time around him. He wasn’t sure what he thought about it—he’d love to be around her as often as possible, even if it only meant watching her. She was probably the most beautiful person he’d ever seen—and now that her hair was short and wasn’t hiding her face at times, it was even more apparent. Except, at the same time, he couldn’t help wondering just how creepy and annoying that had to be.

Not to mention the longer he was around her, the more opportunities he had to do something stupid or insulting.

He had to wonder how anyone else could stand the constant tension that came with interacting with others. But then, perhaps it was just him. Others had no reason to worry about being a disaster, simply by virtue of not being one.

“So, are other Force Hounds like you?” Amaya asked.

“No,” he said.

She waited a moment, and it occurred to him rather belatedly that she was expecting him to elaborate. But by then, she started talking again. “So how are they different?”

“More competent and less… um… I mean, more intimidating?” he eventually said. “I mean… back when my master served Dictator Skal’nas, one of the legates had a human Force Hound. They said he was… defective. He didn’t always obey. But I saw him fight in the arena once. It was over so quickly, like it was just… just… easy?”

“You mean, killing is easy for them and not for you?” Amaya asked.

“No—killing can be pretty easy,” Shen replied. That didn’t seem to be an answer she liked, but he wasn’t sure why. He was being truthful. “I mean, if the opponent isn’t fighting back, or isn’t trained, or is badly trained… But they had him fight with another Force Hound, whose master had died recently. And that should have taken more time.”

“Wait a minute,” Amaya said, looking thoughtful. “You said it should have taken more time. So, on average, most Force Hounds will need more time to kill another Force Hound than this particular one needed to do that, correct?”

Shen nodded. He wasn't sure how exactly, but his attempt at explaining had clearly gone wrong somewhere.

“So, this particular one was exceptionally skilled,” Amaya continued.

Shen nodded again.

“Why are you using him as the baseline to gauge your own skills, if he’s above average?” she asked.

Shen hesitated. “I… mean, he was defective, like me?.. I thought…”

“Why do you keep saying things like that?” Amaya asked. “That you’re defective or broken, or… You’re not a thing, you’re a person.”

He wasn’t sure how to explain. It had always seemed obvious, a fact of life: water was wet, ‘sabers exploded if they overheated and Shen was somehow fundamentally not good enough. He’d never really bothered to consider _why_ he even thought that.

And here she was, the woman who saw hidden flaws in everything, asking why he thought that. Perhaps, he simply was wrong about what it was that was wrong with him, and she’d explain that. That would make most sense. Except…

“I… guess it’s because…” he paused, feeling his face grow hot with embarrassment, as he realized what he was about to say. He really was pathetic. “I am. Adults don’t just… don’t just think they’re broken because their parents gave them away. It was ages ago and here I am-“

“Hold on,” Amaya said. “You’re doing it again. You’re framing everything in a way that makes you the problem. That makes it impossible for you to see yourself as anything but broken and defective.” She put her hand over his. “Please, can you try again? But maybe… hm. Let’s try this—you’re Iron-Eyes now. Shen is another person. You’re telling me about him. Give me the facts.”

“I… He was given away?” Shen replied, hesitating. It seemed odd talking about himself in third person, but at the same time, it was easier to sort everything in his head. “And that had to be my- his fault.” Except… That didn’t make sense, at all. His master had always said that, true, but it’s not like his parents could have stopped him from taking Shen away. “I mean… I don’t think they liked me- him very much. I was always too much—too loud or too quiet, or too messy. It seemed to make sense. I don’t know anymore.

He shook his head to clear it. “My master always said I was too much of a bother for them. And I thought it must have been true, because they never liked anything about me, but… but I think they were upset when they gave me away. And it’s not like they could have stopped it, right?”

Amaya nodded slowly. “It doesn’t change that they were bad parents, but I think it might have been their way of coping with knowing you’d be taken away? It was a terrible way of coping with it, mind you—it made you suffer, to start with. And your master lied to you, because he’s a dick who likes when others are miserable.”

For a few seconds, Shen wasn't sure he'd heard her right. She sounded so matter of fact about it. Then, when it finally did register that yes, she had, he couldn’t help but laugh. It was more nerves than actual amusement, but once he managed to calm down, he found he was actually feeling better.


	6. Where Coronet City Has a History to Be Proud Of

Amaya couldn’t tell if she found any comfort in the fact that if her little brother was alive, he might be like Iron-Eyes. She knew she didn’t want him to be constantly second-guessing himself—frankly, simply being next to Iron-Eyes and sensing the constant anxiety was exhausting. She couldn’t imagine how tiring it was to be him.

But on the other hand, she also didn’t want him to be like the other Force Hounds Iron-Eyes and Kha’vir had told her about.

Except, she had to wonder if they were really like that at all. After all, would she have thought differently of Iron-Eyes, had she only known him as Dictator Illai’s silent attack dog? Was the Force Hound that Iron-Eyes had been comparing himself to only that—a born killer? Or was there more to him?

There had been more to Simurgh, after all. Perhaps Amaya's little brother was more like that? But he’d been so little when he’d been taken away, where Simurgh was nearly past the age where rakata would consider her trainable.

So, no. No, she found no comfort in the idea that Tamid might be like Iron-Eyes. She had to hope that he was aware that he was more than just what the rakata wanted to make of him. That maybe… maybe he’d known deep down that he had the strength to break out of the bonds they'd placed in his mind.

And if he was too lost for that, then she had to hope they’d find him one day and that she could still help him.

But that was something that might or might not happen in the future, and she had the present to deal with. And the present was complex enough. Cooped up as she was, Alia had decided that she could join her mother, Janan, in training the few Force sensitive children they’d managed to hide away: a total of two, twins named Sair and Tal.

It had been several months since Amaya had seen her mother, which was not unusual. Their duties kept them separate for long stretches of time, and each time Amaya saw Janan again, she found herself shocked at how much her mother had aged. In her memory, she somehow always remained black-haired and quick of movement, but in reality, her hair had grown steely grey and her motion become careful.

The years had dried Janan out, leaving her thin and seemingly fragile—a starving bird, with bones so thin that they’d break under a stronger grip. But the appearance was a lie—if Janan had been that weak, she’d have died long ago. And yet, Amaya could not shake off the sense that her mother was slowly burning out—that one day, she’d fade away completely, like smoke in the morning wind.

“Amaya,” Janan said, moving to embrace her. “I’m so glad you’re well.”

Amaya hugged her back and tried not to think of how thin her mother had become.

“I’m happy to see you too, mother,” she said. “Perhaps you could show me what your students have learned so far?”

Janan sighed. “Only to trust the Force and let it guide them. Anything else might get us noticed.”

In itself that was hardly little. Even without overtly influencing the world around them, simply listening to the voice of the Force could lead one to an unexpected victory where all hope seemed lost. But it was undoubtedly easier if you could throw a chair at the head of the person trying to kill you.

There were a few pointers Amaya could give to the twins, but it seemed like for the most part, she'd simply be an audience. Her mother had everything well in hand.

“Do you sometimes think about Tamid?” she asked.

Janan winced. “Of course. I miss him daily.” Then, she put her hand over Amaya’s. “I’ve heard what you did, dear. And don’t get me wrong, it was brave and kind, but I wonder—did you do it because you hope that one day, you’ll find and rescue your brother?”

“Don’t you?” Amaya asked, frowning.

“Hope can only sustain you for so long,” Janan replied wistfully. “I accepted long ago that my son is dead. Even if his body lives, his soul has died.”

Amaya pulled her hand away and hissed, “How can you say that? I’ve risked my life to rescue someone, and you’re telling me I did it for nothing? That I should have given up on him? And that I should give up on my brother?”

“I know you sense exactly what I do—that this Force Hound is as dark in the Force as he was before you freed him,” Janan replied. “As dark as the Rakata are. Do you think anyone can come away untainted from that?” She sighed. “We’ve accepted Kha’vir, but we know she’s only helping us because she wants revenge for her treatment at the hands of her people.”

“And how is that different from what so many people here want, mother?” Amaya shot back.

“It’s not,” Janan replied softly. “That is the whole point—the moment the rakata came, they tainted us all. We can try and hope that it doesn’t spread to our children, but we must accept that it’s in our own hearts already. I want revenge for my son, for your pain and mine, as much as Kha’vir wants to avenge her own.”

Amaya bit back her anger. This was not an issue that would be solved by aggression. All it would do was drive her mother further away, further into this… hopelessness and despair.

“I understand,” she said softly. “I really do—anger and hate are dangerous emotions. They can give you strength, but eventually all you can feed to them is yourself.” She put her hands over Janan’s. “But despair is just as dangerous. Listen to yourself—you’ve given up on all of us.”

“I’ve merely accepted the harsh truth-“ Janan started to say but Amaya squeezed her hands and shook her head.

“No, this isn’t acceptance, mother,” she said. “ _Listen_ to yourself. You’re saying that you’re tainted. You’re saying that we all are—because of what we’ve suffered. That it's fine if we give up on others who are also suffering.”

She knew her words would not bring an end to Janan’s suffering—it was too late for a simple conversation to banish that. Just like some would nurture their anger until it swallowed them up, so had Amaya’s mother fed her despair. But maybe, just maybe, Amaya’s words would be enough to make Janan fight back again.

She knew she could—she would've been dead had Janan not done the impossible during the invasion.

Janan looked at her silently, then pulled her into a hug. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sair and Tal weren’t the only children hiding in the tunnels. Many a family had moved there in the wake of the invasion, preferring to remain unnoticed by the rakata. More joined them still, as Dictator Illai tried to strangle the Resistance. By now, the tunnels had become a city of their own—a city that moved around, with whole districts disappearing over-night, only to reappear in a different place a few nights later.

Not all of those who lived underground contributed to the fight by taking up arms. There were those who'd teach others whenever time permitted. The circumstances dictated that those lessons were not organized like they’d been before the invasion—sometimes, older teens would teach their younger siblings. Other times, it was friends who studied together, and sometimes a group would come together to learn under someone who knew a given subject.

It was by necessity a much more haphazard education that most parents would have hoped their children would get, but it was still better than what they’d be taught in the schools run by the rakatan administration.

But then, the Resistance had an answer to that too. It took some effort, but they’d smuggle teachers to the surface, where they’d meet up with children and youth willing to learn more.

And it fell to Lupe and Berezi to do just that now.

Ilm Madine had been teaching at Coronet University before the invasion, and had it not happened, he’d have retired years ago. But with Corellia under the rule of the Infinite Empire, Ilm had not stopped teaching, even though by now he needed help crossing longer distances.

The latter fact was actually useful to the Resistance, as whoever accompanied him could claim to be helping him get somewhere without rousing suspicion.

The “class” was a small apartment that belonged to the oldest of the students, a young woman named Bria. She had organized several meetings like this before, and her friends gathered donations that while in themselves were not large, still helped keep the clandestine lessons running.

They’d gathered in the tiny room that served as a living room, bedroom and kitchen for Bria, taking up almost every surface that could be sat on. Ilm had the honour of sitting on the most comfortable chair, as he lunched into an explanation of how Coronet City had become the capital of Corellia.

“You may know that Coronet City was built with the purpose of serving as the capital,” Ilm said. “Have you ever wondered why?”

“Because no one could agree if Kor Vella or Tyrena would make better capitals, and naming either would lead to riots,” Bria replied confidently.

“Indeed,” Ilm replied with a pale smile. “There was still discontent, of course, though not as much as one could have initially suspected. Part of it was likely due to how fraught with problems the construction of Coronet City had been. I’m sure some of you heard some of the stories?”

“Is it true that the head city planner accidentally deleted everything the night before the deadline, and had her children just design everything?” a boy of perhaps sixteen asked.

“Not the night before and they did some corrections, but the rest is true,” Ilm replied. “The city layout in fact owes its complexity to the fact that it was planned by three toddlers with crayons. It’s also the reason why Coronet City only fell after the rest of Corellia was conquered—the rakatan army kept getting lost and ambushed throughout the invasion.”

“What about the kitchen window strike?” a girl with electric blue hair asked.

“Absolutely true as well,” Ilm answered. “There was at a point a proposal to optimize the use of space by, among others, not ensuring that kitchens have windows. The reasoning was that they weren't in constant use, and the ventilation would be enough. It didn’t go over well.

“And then, we reach the final hardship that our ancestors ran into,” Ilm said with relish. “You are aware of the tunnels beneath our city, aren’t you? They’re much older than the city itself—in fact, the selonians managed to abandon them and move to a better location before humans started settling on Corellia.. It was something of an unpleasant surprise when it turned out ‘not very extensive’ means that they were larger than the surface planned for the city.

“Now, there are more examples of poor planning here, but this is not what we should be focusing on right now,” Ilm continued. “Coronet City was eventually finished, despite the unexpected costs and troubles. Of course, by that point, it was time to pick a new General Assembly, and given that Ane Bel Malis had died recently, there was no clear leading figure.”

Lupe had heard the story before, but she listened nonetheless. It may have not been glorious, in fact, it was rather silly and perhaps a little bit pathetic, but it was _theirs_. And no one was going to take it away from them.

 

* * *

  

The final issue that came with organizing secret lessons was getting everyone out without attracting too much attention. Just like the participants couldn’t come all at once, neither could they all leave together. They had to slowly sneak out in groups and join the flow of people outside.

The first to leave was the girl with the electric blue hair, notes carefully hidden in a bag full of second-hand clothes. Then after a quarter of an hour, a pair of brothers left. Slowly, in pairs or singly, the young students left to disappear in the crowds, until finally, it was time for Berezi and Lupe to lead Ilm back to the tunnels.

It was getting late by then, and while it wasn’t difficult to disappear in the crowd just yet, they’d have to be careful not to attract attention. Or rather not to attract attention other than as two kind people helping an old man.

Depending on their luck, it could still not be enough—it was not unknown for young rakata to decide they found an elderly member of society to be past their usefulness—but it had been a fairly good cover so far.

The streets were crowded with people hurrying back home or to eat somewhere. As the years passed since the invasion, it was growing harder for people to buy unprocessed groceries, and many new apartments lacked kitchens altogether. Why the rakata had a grudge against the masses cooking at home was beyond Berezi. He was quite sure the answer would be horrifying, stupid or both.

Eventually, they had ducked into what appeared to be a run-down alley full of half-abandoned houses, and then into one of the graffiti-covered gates. Inside, they entered one of the few inhabited apartments. The old woman who lived there—Rell—didn’t even so much as acknowledge them. Once upon a time, Berezi had heard her say that if she didn’t see who entered the tunnels through the hidden cellar under her bedroom, she couldn’t identify them.

There was an undeniable logic to it, but he had never liked it.

Then again, there was a lot that he didn’t like nowadays.

 

* * *

 

 

It never ceased to amaze Shen how quickly Cal could switch from a gregarious, friendly man to a withdrawn piece of furniture. It was a little bit uncanny, the way he seemed to almost become what he clearly wasn’t. He really wished he could do the same, but it just didn’t seem to work.

Or… well, no, it actually seemed like once or twice, he’d forgotten who he was and where he was, and for a moment, his voice came out normally and he found himself laughing at a joke that Cal made… And then it slipped away, and his mind went back to the familiar patterns.

Even when he knew that some of the thoughts he kept having _couldn’t_ be true anymore. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t feeling useless. He knew things someone else found valuable. In fact, he’d been praised by a rakata.

Sure, Kha’vir was _weird_ , but he very firmly told himself that it still counted.

“So, let me get this straight,” Cal said, gesticulating expansively with his hands. “Illai has two pools in his throne room. There’s some sort of big carnivorous… thing there. And he keeps moving it between pools, so no one feels safe around it?”

“There’s a pattern,” Shen said. Kha’vir made a surprised noise at that—surely, she had to have noticed that? But perhaps she hadn't been in the throne room often enough to notice. “He takes the number of years he’d ruled Corellia and then adds the number of the month he’s at currently. If the number is even, he adds the number of days that have passed since the beginning of the current week.”

Cal nodded slowly. “And how did you find that out? I don’t think he’d have written it down.”

“He said there was a pattern once—I don’t think he remembered I was in the room,” Shen replied with a shrug. “And uh… I’d rather not get eaten. So I started counting, and eventually I figured it out.”

“Anything else like that you’ve figured out, Iron-Eyes?” Cal asked.

Shen felt a moment of pride then. It was short, because then he drew a blank as to just what else he'd noticed over the years that could be useful, and really, it was mostly that he’d been there to see every time Ferocious had been moved around. But still.

He wasn’t useless anymore.  


	7. Where Kha'vir's Approach to Being a Proto-Jedi Has a Distinctly Rakatan Flavour

It was late in the evening that Cal emerged from the crash-course in being a slave that Kha’vir was putting him through. He was only slightly less energetic than usual, which likely meant it was an intensive one. Amaya had been going through one of the reports Alia got, sitting at one of the old benches that had been carved hundreds of years ago by the original Selonian colonists, when she spotted him.

He waved at her, then came to sit down next to her, stretching his legs out so that they rested on the stone table before them and lacing his hands behind his head.

“So, Tookie, what would you be if the rakata weren’t here?” Cal asked with a grin.

Amaya had to admit that it was a very nice one, as she smiled back and answered, “Out of your league.”

Cal burst out laughing at that. “So, you’re not out of my league now, huh?”

Amaya couldn’t help but laugh too. “Feeling clever today, aren’t we?” She rested her chin on her fist and said, “Very well then, what would you be, if the rakata weren’t here?”

Cal shrugged and with a modest expression said, “A famous actor, of course.”

“How ambitious,” Amaya replied, shaking her head. “But fine. I wanted to be a physicist.”

“And you call me ambitious,” Cal replied, amused. “I never understood anything more complex than the basics. All those formulas and calculations made my head hurt.” Then, he looked at her more solemnly, “But I’d have thought you’d have wanted to study the Force?”

Amaya laughed again. “And that’s why you can’t use it, Cal. Studying physics and studying the Force are not mutually exclusive.”

“Oh come now,” Cal protested. “You’re telling me that throwing things with your mind isn’t against the laws of physics?”

“That too,” Amaya replied. Sometimes, she wondered what exactly people had been taught about the Force, if they couldn’t use it themselves. Clearly, not what she'd learned. “But it’s much more than this-“

“I’ve heard it, I’ve heard it,” Cal said quickly. “But can we maybe can any lessons until I’m back? I mean, even if you managed to teach me how to tap into it or whatever it is that you do, we’d have to find someone else to sneak into the palace.”

Amaya nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder if it’d work. Most people show signs that they can… oh, this is so frustrating. Use is a terrible word here. But it has to do. So, most people show signs that they can use the Force before they reach puberty—they might be obvious or subtle, but they will be there. You’re an adult, though.”

“Can’t you sense that, though?” Cal asked, now quite curious.

“Yes,” Amaya said. “I can. You don’t feel Force sensitive. But well… It’s just idle musings.”

“Very well then,” Cal said. “I can be your test subject once I’m back.”

“You'd better come back, then,” Amaya answered, and leaned to kiss his cheek. “I’d like to have some opportunity to experiment.”

  

* * *

 

 

Kleav-yi did not remember her parents. Her earliest memory had been of the Matron and of learning: how to be always silent, how to fade into the background, how to serve. Kleav-yi had been a good student and later a good servant. She’d endured her master’s moods and had performed her duties without so much as a whisper.

In a way, it had been rewarded, as now, she got to serve the Dictator when he was ill. She had been weathering his irrational outbursts as silently as she had weathered everything in her life. But the very venom of them, the suddenness and unfairness, had woken something deep in her.

A bitter, festering whisper that told her she deserved more for her patience. That serving someone whose own family feared to approach him was not a prize for good service.

Kleav-yi had not voiced those thoughts. They were dangerous.

But when one of the free servants asked her to smuggle out a bit of the Dictator's medicine to her, she didn’t say no. Of course, she knew why they were asking. The Dictator was dying, and the one to kill him would be most likely to claim the throne. Even if the killing happened to be done with the hands of another.

She hadn’t said yes, either. A slave she might have been, but she was an _old_ slave. She knew how the world worked. Nothing was for free.

“I can move you to the First Wife’s nursery,” the other woman said with a placid smile. It was quite the spot—the First Wife hadn’t had a clutch in several years now, so her nursery and hatchery were merely status symbols, to be kept clean. There were no children in them that had yet to learn not to bite anything that moved.

“If a bit of the medicine goes missing, I will make sure to let you now,” Kleav-yi replied with a deferential bow, as befitted a slave speaking to a free woman.

“Thank you, Kleav-yi,” the other woman said.

Then, they went about their duties, Kleav-yi heading back to weather another of the Dictator’s tantrums. She waited placidly as he ranted about how Ferocious needed to be moved—ever since he’d taken ill, the beast was left alone in its pool, though no one had told him so. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and no one would end up being eaten by a moody over-grown amphibian.

The physician stood by, his long fingers laced in front of him, as he listened to the Dictator’s rant. When he paused, he motioned for Kleav-yi to come closer and handed her a syringe. It was not the first time—a free man like him would not risk approaching a dangerous patient with anything sharp, but a slave like her was expendable.

Except, this time around, Kleav-yi’s fingers only brushed the glass and the syringe slipped out of them. The glass cracked at her feet, the blue liquid inside leaking out.

Kleav-yi fell to her knees immediately, apologies spilling from her lips, as she gathered the broken syringe and wiped up the spilled medicine. The physician waved her off, as he took the broken tool.

Quickly, Kleav-yi fled, before anyone noticed that one of her sleeves was wet… 

 

* * *

 

 

Nour didn’t know how many times the sample had changed hands before it reached zhim. Zhe guessed it must have been a number of exchanges—it was not a perfect guarantee that it couldn’t be traced, but it certainly would make it harder to do so. It was such an incongruous thing, too—a piece of grey fabric, hidden in a plastic container. Still, it was with zhim now, and so zhe could start on zher work.

And it was really high time for that—zhe had managed to read all the back issues of Princess Katoaa. It was something of a guilty pleasure for zhim, reading about one of the invaders' heroines.

But sometimes, zhe had the impression that whoever was writing the visual novels wasn’t a fan of the Infnite Empire, either. It was nothing overt—Katoaa was a perfect, backstabbing rakatan maiden—but there were those little moments, which made zhim wonder.

Like in the current adventure, where Katoaa had been captured by her father’s rival and had managed to escape simply by virtue of not being a complete monster towards his slaves. That couldn’t be coincidence, could it?

Still, as amusing as the visual novels had been, Nour and zher team had a lot to do. Zhe’d already started the analysis of the medicine, the compounds, their percentage and the chemical structure all appearing on a large screen in full time. It was not the first time, and certainly not the last time, that Nour felt grateful that zher mother had decided to build one of her labs in the tunnels, even if at the time it had been seen as a _tad_ paranoid. Hala Novar had been seen as an eccentric by most, and since the pay was good, her employees accepted that occasionally, they’d have to work in what was essentially a bunker.

Nour suspected Hala would be grimly satisfied too if she’d lived to see that the location she’d chosen was no longer a subject of indulgent rumour. As it was, Nour took some satisfaction in knowing that zhe was helping to hurt the bastard who’d ordered zher mother’s execution.

And the fact that the fact that zhe'd be doing that with the very thing that was supposed to make him better added just another layer of satisfaction.

Finally, the monitor pinged, indicating the analysis was complete. It seemed that the medicine was very close in composition to iiaine—a fairly common narcotic and soporific. Nour recalled that its effect was much more potent on reptiles than on mammals.

Nour clapped zher hands to get zher team’s attention and said, “All right, people. You know the drill—I want ideas on how to poison this bastard by tomorrow. Then we’ll discuss them, pick the best option and get to work on it.”

  

* * *

 

 

Kha’vir sat in silence, hands motionless on her lap, and listened to the Force. It was something she’d only recently learned how to do, and it was… intriguing. All her life, she’d heard of how everyone had a purpose: hers to bear children, her father’s to conquer and all the others to serve them.

And now she was teaching a bright, funny human how to be a slave. That brought memories back—of her nanny, but also the others. Of those who’d bought into the vision and purpose the Infinite Empire told them they had. Of those who had accepted they were tools, and of those who looked at others and only saw things.

But the worst was the memory of what all of this had been built on. The secret behind it all: the grand palaces, the terrible weapon, the rigid hierarchy. She couldn’t describe it as anything else but a sad attempt to mask the fear of futility and pointlessness. Life had no other purpose than to live. Everything else was a lie. She could see why others might find the idea terrifying—all one’s choices were, in the end, their own. There was nothing to hide behind. No destiny, no gods.

It had been terrifying, at first. But no longer.

If there was no grand purpose, then she could choose her own, after all.

And once you conquered your fear for the first time, it was never going to be as powerful as it used to be. Once you faced it and accepted it, you’d know it. It wouldn’t be hidden, just beyond hearing, but out in the open.

It was time to face her fears once more, then, and name them. She was afraid of becoming like her mother and father. She was afraid that by teaching Cal how to be a slave, she might regress to what she’d been. She was afraid that Cal might die.

And as always, when she’d named her fears, she found the answers to them. She was her own person. Neither her mother, nor her father. She’d chosen her path, and she’d been walking it ever since without turning back.

By teaching Cal, she was making sure he’d come back safe. And if he did die, then she’d find a way to avenge him.

She breathed out, letting the Force fill her. It was a sensation unlike any other, when she was most aware of being part of everything else—she was now, then and what will be; she was matter and more; emotions and peace.

But most importantly, she was.

Then she breathed out and opened her eye. She rose, picked up a stray sock that she’d missed before sitting down to meditate, and put it away with other clothes that needed washing.

  

* * *

 

 

Perhaps it was the repetition, perhaps it was something else, but he’d caught himself thinking of himself as Iron-Eyes more often than Shen. It was a better name, even if he was quite sure that comparing him to iron in any way was something of a bad joke. Jelly-Spine was probably more accurate, but he suspected that if he ever said that he’d worry Amaya, Cal and Berezi. And he’d insult Kha’vir, after all the nice things she’d told him.

Or perhaps they'd take him up on it, once they finally grew tired of dealing with him.

Or perhaps, he was being unfair in thinking that? It had only recently occurred to him that he was being unfair by assuming people would turn on him for the slightest misstep, when he had evidence they would not.

For example, Kha’vir must have noticed how uneasy he’d been around her.

At the very beginning, he’d wondered why she was helping. What could she hope to gain? The Resistance would not win. They might not lose, either, just end up locked in a struggle that would never end, but the Infinite Empire was simply too vast to be defeated by one planet. So she couldn’t hope to become the new ruler by leading a successful revolt, or even to become part of the new government out of gratitude for her accomplishments.

And she had vengeance already—her father was long dead.

Now, though, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps, she didn’t want vengeance just for herself? Maybe she wanted it for others who could not fight?

In the end, he gathered the sad battered thing that passed for courage in his head, and asked. The sky failed to fall, the earth didn’t open up beneath him, and no angry god descended to punish him for daring to do so. He only felt kind of ridiculous for making such a big deal out of it.

“Because the Infinite Empire needs to fall,” Kha’vir replied. “It’s weak.”

Iron-Eyes blinked.

Then, he stared at her, while his brain processed what he’d just heard.

“Ah, I see,” Kha’vir said. “You’re confused. Sit down, and I will explain.”

Iron-Eyes obeyed, and plopped down on the floor at her feet. He was still unsure what would prompt anyone to voice such a sentiment about an empire spanning hundreds of planets, but he thought she had to have a reason.

“It’s built on fear,” Kha’vir said once he settled down. “We conquer because we fear we may be conquered. We subjugate because we are afraid to be subjugated. And so, we stand on the backs of uncountable slaves… Slaves who one day may notice that our power is an illusion. They are the ones building our weapons, raising our cattle and building our homes.

“It’s true that here, on Corellia, I may lose,” she continued. “We may all yet die. But the damage is done already—we’ve shown that you can stand up to them. That anyone can fight back. You don’t have to be physically fit or in your prime to make a difference. You don’t have to be healthy. You don’t have to be strong. What matters is that you do something.”

“You mean, the very fact that you’re fighting them makes them look weak?” he eventually guessed.

“It’s not just that,” Kha’vir answered. “If you claim to be on the top, you can only fall. If you say that you are unstoppable and unconquerable, any resistance puts a crack in your image.”

“And you want your own people to fall?” Iron-Eyes asked.

Kha’vir motioned to her missing eye. “They stood by when this happened. They used Simurgh, took her and so many other from their homes… Yes. I do want them to fall. Don’t you?”


	8. Where There's Always Time for Birthday Cake

It was something of a tradition that Berezi cooked for the birthdays of his cell members, if they were all in the tunnels for one and he could secure the supplies. It might have been some time since he'd owned a restaurant, and even more since he'd been a chef, but he still remembered how to cook.

And this year, Lupe had managed to make sure her children and husband were there, too. She saw them far too rarely—they all knew that, but it was safer this way, especially since at fifteen, the twins had started doing their own missions.

“Real food!” Belen exclaimed with a grin.

Her sister’s smile was exactly the same—the girls were identical: broad-shouldered and solid like their mother, with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes.

Esti was already loading up cake on her plate, which her parents were pretending not to notice. It was rare enough that either of them saw treats, let alone could eat them, so no one was going to remind them to eat healthy.

In fact, Lupe herself was similarly starting with cake. Meanwhile, her husband appeared to be making his soup disappear without ever opening his mouth. His moustache and beard—neatly trimmed and styled, as always—had remained meticulously clean.

Cal had opted to load up on cake as well—an idea that had lots of merit, seeing that it was on its way to becoming a rare commodity. Then, once a generous serving of confectionery was heaped on his plate, he sat down next to Kha’vir, who apparently decided that when choosing between ribs and ham, she’d go for both.

“You’re a wizard, Berezi,” Lupe laughed. “I’ve no idea where you get this stuff from.”

“My dear child,” Berezi replied, “you were on the supply raid with me.”

“I’m complimenting you,” Lupe answered with a grin. “You’re an amazing cook.”

“Give me a real kitchen, and I’ll show you amazing,” Berezi replied.

It was pure chance that Cal caught the gaze of Lupe’s husband then, but it was enough. Both of them snorted at the same time, and tried, with varying degrees of success to hide their amusement. 

 

* * *

 

 

Apparently, being treated to a meal that everyone else was also eating was something of an alien experience to Iron-Eyes. Or at least so Amaya concluded, given that he had been staring at the tray like it was going to disappear any moment now.

“If you want to, you can join us,” she added. Predictably, that was met with terrified silence. “Or I can  "wait a moment for you to try the food so I can tell Berezi if you liked it.”

“That’s fine,” Iron-Eyes replied quickly, grabbing the nearest edible object and biting into it. The salad crunched slightly, as he ate a forkful and then repeated the process with everything else. “It’s good. You can go and enjoy yourself now.”

“You sure?” Amaya asked. “You seem to enjoy yourself with Cal and Kha’vir, and they’re both there.”

Iron-Eyes hesitated. She had to wonder if it was because he was picking up the impatience she was trying to squash, or if it was because he thought it was some kind of test. The more she knew of him, the more apparent it was to her that he saw all interactions as some sort of games that were rigged against him.

“Look, I wouldn't be offering to stay longer if I wanted to go back right away,” she said. “You can sense I’m not lying, can’t you?”

“I- I think so?” he eventually said. “I’m not-“ He stopped what he was saying and shook his head. “Can we talk about this later?”

“Of course, but why?” Amaya asked confused.

“It will take too long to explain,” Iron-Eyes replied. “And I need to think about it first.” He paused, and then after a moment, added, “I’ll explain. I promise.”

Amaya decided not to press any further for now. Hearing later would be good enough.

“So, when is your birthday?” she asked instead. “If Berezi can organize the ingredients, I’m sure he’ll be happy to make a meal like that for you too.”

Iron-Eyes shook his head. “I don’t remember. There’s no need to bother with it, anyway. I mean… it’s not like I did anything special by getting born. Babies do that all the time.”

Amaya chuckled at that. “How about celebrating that against all odds you’re still here and you have friends?”

“If you think it’s a good idea,” Iron-Eyes replied after a moment. He didn’t seem to be any more convinced than before though.

“It’s your decision,” Amaya said firmly. “You don’t have to make it right now—but if you do decide to have one, tell me or Berezi.”

Then, she got up, and patted his shoulder. “Eat up. I’ll go wish Lupe happy birthday and steal some cake.”

 

* * *

 

It came as no surprise to Cal that Amaya hadn’t managed to coax Iron-Eyes to join them. He didn’t seem like the type to enjoy even a small party like this. Not yet, at any rate. It was a pity, but there was nothing any of them could do.

So, Cal turned his mind to the thing he definitely could achieve—making sure those present, himself included, had fun.

“I've no idea how you do it, but you look more stunning every day, Tookie,” he said, as Amaya sat down next to him.

She smiled at him then, teeth flashing between full lips. “It’s the stale air and the lack of sunlight, of course.”

Cal grinned back. “Are you saying you’re a mushroom?”

Amaya broke into a fit of giggles, the two teenage girls joining in a moment later. He had to admit, the image his words conjured was a lot more amusing than he’d expected—and now that he imagined Amaya as a mushroom, he couldn’t stop laughing either, which wasn’t helped by the patient look Kha’vir had given them all.

It took him quite a while to compose himself, given that Kha’vir seemed to have caught on that her tired patience was making him laugh harder, and kept giving him the same look every time he looked at her. Nevertheless, he eventually managed the feat.

“And none of you have been drinking…” Berezi said, while shaking his head sadly.

 

* * *

 

 

Iron-Eyes chewed on the cake far longer than he really needed to. Partially, because it was quite amazing—sweet, puffy and moist, with cream that was just tart enough to bring out the sweetness of the cake better. But it was also because he was picking at the thought he’d just had fiercely.

  _He actually wasn’t bad at picking up others' moods._

It had seemed like a given for so long. He remembered the first time he’d been told he was wrong. The words had been “ _I love you, but I don’t like you._ ” and he had sensed no warmth, no kindness, only a kind of all-consuming weariness.

And then all the times he’d thought he’d been wrong about his master’s mood—but had he been? Had it really been that his master wouldn’t have grown angry, if Iron-Eyes hadn’t acted like Illai already was? Or was it simply an excuse to lash out?

It had been the same three people who he had thought he must have been reading wrong. But, if he managed with so many others, if he could easily sense the people a few rooms away, then maybe it was _them_.

There was something liberating about the thought. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t such a failure after all?

But the pleasant, warm glow of certainty faded quickly. So what if he wasn’t terrible at the most basic skill any Force Hound had to master? It was of no use here, was it? The only potential use he saw was vetting new members, and he doubted the Resistance’d want a Force Hound judgement to be the recruits’ first experience.

It’d be a spectacle—one he could already imagine in all of its terrible glory. He’d be stumbling over words with crowds of people he’d just met staring at him.

Really, just because he wasn't a complete failure didn't mean he wasn't still a failure.

And then, just as he was about to start berating himself for probably wasting Amaya’s time over something stupid, he had another thought. Why was it that he could never be happy with anything? Why did every success turn into a failure in his mind?

There _was_ something wrong with him. There was something wrong about how he thought, the way his mind always, always, turned to dwell on painful things, on all the ways he could fail, on how he would never be good enough and how eventually he’d always end up alone.

Once upon a time, he'd thought that if he just knew would made him unlovable and imperfect, he’d be able to cut that part out of himself and finally be what he was supposed to be. Cut out parts of himself he had, little by little, until all that was left was fear and despair, and an over-whelming sense of failure.

Except… Except he knew that he was doing some things right. Hadn’t Kha’vir told him so? Hadn’t Cal? Why wasn’t that enough for him? Why couldn’t he trust them on that?

No, that wasn’t what his point had been originally. He was doing it again, thinking in circles, being _stupid_ —the reason had to be inside him, everyone else around him felt like they liked themselves, so…

He didn’t know. Try as he might, he couldn’t figure out what he should do.

But… Amaya could see other’s hidden weaknesses, couldn’t she? Perhaps that was the solution? Maybe she could tell him what it was that was wrong with him?


	9. Where Established Thought Patterns Are Harder to Break than Mere Steel

It was hard, sticking to his decision. Perhaps, if he’d been brave enough to leave his room—how ridiculous that sentence sounded!—and ask her right away, he wouldn’t have been agonizing over it so much now. But here he was, terrified what she might tell him.

That he was too broken to ever get better, maybe? Or that there was nothing wrong with him, and it all had been excuses?

He’d nearly decided not to ask after all. Nearly. Even if he was too broken to ever be right again, he’d at least know. And then… well, he was still a Force Hound, and there was a civil war brewing. He could find a death in battle and not be a burden anymore.

If there was nothing wrong with him… Well, then there was nothing wrong with him. He’d have to accept it and find a way to stop whining about everything, even if he was only doing it in his own head most of the time. It was no wonder he couldn’t stand himself, he thought with wryness that surprised him—he really was quite annoying.

And there was the third possibility—that there was something wrong with him, but that whatever it was could be fixed.

Not that he got around to asking straight away. “Your leader said you see hidden flaws… How does that work?”

“Well… It’s really hard to describe,” she said as she looked around the room. “It’s easiest if I show you first. Wait a moment.”

And then she went out, only to return moments later with a fork. It looked perfectly normal to him, like any other piece of cutlery he’d seen. It seemed to be made from steel, as far as he could tell.

“Do you think you could break it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Maybe bend it,” he said.

“Grab it by both ends, and push with the Force, here,” she instructed, tapping the area just next to the fork’s head.

He looked at her quizzically, before following the instruction. The fork bent first, and then broke at the head.

“There was a flaw in the metal right there,” she said. “It applies to most objects, but I can also sense when a situation is ready to change. It doesn’t tell me what could change it, though.”

“What about people?” he asked.

“You mean, can I see flaws in people?” she asked and when he nodded, she frowned. “Not in the sense you’re thinking. I can’t look at a person and say ‘oh, they’re lazy’ or something like that. It’s more that I get a rough idea of something that I could do or tell them that’d push them towards radical change. Or break them completely. I can’t always tell which it is.”

That was it, he realized. He could end the conversation just then, like a coward. Or he could try—if he could change, if he could finally find out what to do so he could stop being himself, then he should take the chance.

He was broken already, wasn’t he? She couldn’t break him any more than he already was.

“What would you tell me?” he asked.

Amaya looked at him for a moment, as she toyed with the edge of her sleeve.

“You think you’re broken,” she said eventually, “but a human isn’t a piece of wood or metal. You’re wounded—and wounds heal.” She paused for a moment. “But only if you give them time. Not if you keep picking and picking at them.

“Imagine a tree that grew somewhere where wind is blowing constantly,” she continued. “It grows bent and twisted, and if the wind were to stop blowing, it won’t untwist just because the wind’s gone. But with effort, you can make sure the new growth will grow upwards. You’ve been hurt since you were very little, and your personality formed around all that pain. Just because the people who hurt you aren't able to do that anymore, doesn’t mean you will be fine right away. You need to adjust.

“And there’s the other thing,” she said. “I’ve heard various descriptions—something like constant grey fog over everything, sapping your energy and joy, until there’s just bleakness left.”  

It wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all. He had thought it’d be…

“You want to be better. You’re asking for help,” she added. “But it’s hard, right? Because you look at yourself and only see things that are wrong with you. I don’t know who first taught you to hate yourself, and whose voice you hear, but I can guess what this voice is telling you.” She leaned forward towards him. “But here’s the thing that whoever it was never wanted you to know—they’re a jerk. And the voice you hear? The one that tells you that you’re worthless? It’s a jerk too.”

That sounded almost unreal, but he had asked. He could hardly complain he didn’t get what he was expecting.

“Oh,” he said after a moment. It was a dumb answer, he knew—and then, for the first time in his life, he told himself to stop there. Except… He didn’t really know what to do next. “So- how do I stop it?”

Amaya frowned. “Now that’s hard. Maybe let’s try walking you through that? Tell me—did you think anything bad about yourself now?”

He nodded. “Yes. That “oh” is a stupid reaction.”

“Why?” Amaya asked. “You took me telling you something you hadn’t expected to hear really calmly. I’ve made some people cry that way. Or… uh… try to punch me.”

He let out a small, terrified groan. “I don’t know if I can do that. I mean… think of how to counter every thought like this.” But… she was trying to help him. He couldn't just give up and disappoint her like that. “But I’ll try.”

“I know you will,” Amaya said, cupping his cheek with her hand. “It will be hard. I’m sorry for that. If we have a chance… When we have a chance, I’ll make sure you get medicated—it’d make the grey fog go away, and make everything easier. But it takes time to get the right type, and it causes withdrawal symptoms if you run out. So please, be strong a while longer, okay?”

 

* * *

 

Iron-Eyes had not expected that arguing with himself, inside his head, could be exhausting. It was hard to keep stopping himself from following a familiar path in his thoughts, and even harder to think of something to counter against all the ways he could find to put himself down.

And then, on occasion, he’d catch himself berating himself for _that_. Which meant stopping himself again, and putting even more effort into telling himself why he wasn’t completely hopeless for being tired with something other people apparently had no problems with.

Slowly, he rested his forehead against the wall, and stood like that in silence.

Maybe he should start doing a count? In the name of science?

Write down how many times a day he’d start criticizing himself, as if he had nothing better to do.

Or maybe not. The number would be depressingly high.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of some way to reframe all of that. Maybe… maybe it was because he’d been thinking like this ever since he remembered? Unlearning something was much harder than learning it from scratch. Perhaps this applied to how one thought, too?

It sounded fake. But then again, most of those things tended to. Even when he had proof that it wasn’t true, somehow the constant criticisms seemed more believable.

Maybe the truth was that he couldn’t do it after all? Maybe he’d disappoint Amaya, because it’d turn out that he-

No. No, he was not doing that. He had asked her for help, and he was not going to waste it. Even if it meant being constantly exhausted. 

 

* * *

 

 

It was obvious Iron-Eyes was struggling, but Amaya thought she had done the right thing, nevertheless. There had been a few occasions when they’d manage to get through a conversation without him freezing up completely. He’d still panic from time to time, but recently she'd noticed that he started talking again without her having to take the time to reassure him.

That didn’t mean he was anywhere close to being confident, though. Or that he’d strike up a conversation with her on her own—he had only gotten slightly better at continuing them, and yet the improvement seemed immense.

“You seem happier,” she said.

Iron-Eyes looked at her with a confused expression. “I do?” He appeared to think for a moment and then said, “I guess I am. I never really realized how much I kept thinking about how terrible I am.”

“That does sounds pretty upsetting,” Amaya said. “But you’re not thinking like that now?”

“No, I still do that,” he said. “It’s just… I think I’m starting to figure out that it’s not always the case. It’s hard, though. It's like everything that I do wrong, or even could do wrong, is obvious to me, but what I do right is gone before I notice it.”

“Let me help you then,” Amaya said with a smile, reaching out to put her hand on his. “You’re doing something well right now. You’re trying to be a better person, and you're asking for help.”

Iron-Eyes seemed to find this even more confusing. “But… isn’t it annoying, when I do that? I mean… Everyone else manages without any help, and I need help constantly, and-“

Amaya hesitated. She had to think about what she’d say—this time, the Force had no hints about possible breakthroughs.

“That’s not exactly true that everyone manages without any help,” she said eventually. “Most people just learn that they have value and that they’re not just made of flaws when they're children. You didn't, did you?” When he shook his head, she continued, “You got a late start. And _that_ is not your fault. That’s on your caretakers.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was the first time Berezi had seen Iron-Eyes outside of his room since they'd brought him to the tunnels. The former Force Hound stopped in the entrance to a busier and larger tunnel, watching the people pass by with wide eyes. He seemed frozen in place, uncertain if he should bolt.

Then, the moment passed, and Iron-Eyes retreated.

Berezi turned back to Lupe and Amaya. Each of them was armed with a blaster, since Alia was sending them to pick something up important that needed to make it to the surface safely. Berezi had been deemed too old for that.

“I’d rather know what it is that we’re supposed to protect,” Lupe grumbled.

Amaya nodded. “I don’t like not knowing either. But it means it’s something important.”

“That’s even worse,” Lupe replied. “And if Alia wants you to help in the tunnels, it means that she’s really worried about anyone else getting their hands on the delivery.”

“Which is exactly why it’s for the best that neither of you know what it is,” Berezi said. “That way you won’t be able to tell anyone anything.”

“I know,” Lupe admitted. “It’s standard procedure. It has been for years, but I still can’t help but worry.”

Amaya had closed her eyes and seemed to be out of the conversation, but when Lupe finished talking, she’d opened them again. It was moments like these that Berezi once again noticed all of a sudden how eerily pale they were—as if the universe had decided to give everyone a visible warning.

Like a poisonous snake, Amaya was lovely to look at, but best treated with respect.

“It’s not something we can control,” she said evenly and firmly. Berezi recognized that tone—it was the one she used whenever she needed to be ready to use the Force. “It's no use to worry. Focus on the thing that you have the ability to affect—our mission. We do it to the best of our abilities, and accept all outcomes.”

And with that, she was already marching. A few others jumped out of her way, almost instinctively knowing not to stand in her way.

“She terrifies me sometimes,” Lupe whispered.

“Let’s hope she terrifies anyone who gets in your way more,” Berezi said, patting the short woman’s shoulder.

Then, she watched them both go, Amaya in the lead and Lupe behind her. He really didn’t envy anyone who’d try to stop them.


	10. Where Leth Finds Out What’s In the Sewers

Leth had heard snippets of stories about the tunnels under Coronet City. They were meant to be infested by monsters, criminals and demons. He just ignored them. Oh, he was prepared to admit that there were some old unused sewers, which were likely used by criminals and perhaps had some over-grown rats nesting there, but demons and monsters?

If anyone wanted to look for those, they just needed to visit the Dictator’s court.

So it was with resignation that he accepted his orders from his predor. Hunting some minor riff-raff in a sewer was beneath his skills. His master ought to have sent him to hunt down the terrorist woman, the one that had stolen the Dictator’s Force Hound.

Humans were sometimes truly pathetic. Show them a pretty face and prominent secondary sexual characteristics and they’d lose what little brains they had. Not that Shen had much to start with.

But no, Leth had to sit in the damp, smelly sewer, because his predor had gotten it into his head that he needed more exercise. And of course, he couldn’t send him to the arena, or practically anywhere else. No, it had to be the sewers.

Once Leth caught whatever idiots had made the damn sewers into their hideout, he’d skin them alive. And eat their livers and kidneys while they watched.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he wouldn’t have sensed her. If she’d not found some way to mask herself in the Force, they’d have found her long ago. But here she was. The terrorist—dressed in one of the ubiquitous vests with far too many pockets, paired with baggy pants and a padded shirt, her hair shorn nearly to her skull, she probably wasn’t as attractive-looking to another human now.

But there was something about her.

She stopped, holding out her hand so that the woman behind her stopped too. She was shorter and, dressed in the padded garb, seemed almost square.

Leth realized the woman knew he was here.

So, he did the only reasonable thing in the situation—he ignited his ‘saber and jumped out of his hiding place. Swinging downward, the momentum carried him at-

Nothing.

The women had jumped away. The short one drew a blaster, but hadn’t started shooting. The tall one was still in front of her, ready to spring into action. She’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat, he could tell, but it’d not help her.

He lunched at her again, swinging his ‘saber horizontally, only for her to jump over him. He turned, letting the momentum of his swing carry him, but she was already ducking under his swing, her leg shooting out to kick him in the knee.

Precisely the one he'd injured in his last bout in the arena, and which hadn’t healed fully yet. He heard a sickening crack, and pain shot up his leg like fire. It buckled underneath him, and he stumbled into the mud.

It was sloppy, focusing on a wound like that. It gave his opponent a chance to shoot his hand and make him drop his ‘saber. She picked it up, as she knelt in front of him and pulled his helmet off. She slid her hand under his snout, her grip gentle, but firm.

A memory, almost formless, threatened to worm itself into his mind—and then he felt her presence in her mind. He couldn’t look away from her eyes. It was like staring at lightning.

He realized then that he was not going to walk away from this. His memories were bare before her now, some sort of synergy between her skills and his innate gift, the one he’d fought hard to forget. And once it had broken free, he couldn’t look away from what he’d become again.

There was only one thing left that he could do. He raised his good hand, the Force crackling like electricity between his fingers.

He didn’t get her. She was out of his way before the lightning struck. His own blade was sticking out of his chest, blue blade glowing coldly in the dark. Then his vision faded, until there was only a blur of white surrounded by black, and then nothing. 

 

* * *

 

 

Amaya had always known that something about the energy swords of the Force Hounds was alive. The Force around them sung—a gentle hum at the very edge of hearing. But this one was different. This one was singing for _her_.

She looked at the cylindrical shape that hid the little spark of life, and something about it told her that it was wrong. It shouldn't have looked like that. She had no idea what it was supposed to look like, though.

“Are you going to keep it this time?” Lupe asked, as she cautiously approached Amaya and the dead Force Hound. Her blaster was still drawn and aimed at the lifeless body.

“Yes,” Amaya said. “It’s a weird Force thing.”

Lupe snorted at that. “Do warn me if the Force starts telling you to take hands or tongues as trophies, so I know when to run.”

“It’s not a trophy,” Amaya answered. “Whatever is powering this thing wants to be with me.”

As one might have expected, Lupe didn’t find this reassuring. “It’s rakatan. Don’t you think they might have done something to make you think that?”

Amaya frowned and focused on the spark of life that was calling out to her. It didn’t feel like the Force Hounds or the rakata—it simply was. A little piece of existence with no intent other than the desire to stay with her. But the longer she remained focused on the spark, the more it grew to feel like it was a part of her.

Without thinking, she ignited the sword, and this time, the blade was no longer pale blue, but rather a vivid green.

“No, they didn’t,” Amaya said confidently, as she switched the blade off.

“Weird Force thing, indeed,” Lupe commented. “How you can just accept all of that is beyond me.”

Amaya shrugged. “The Force will work as it wills regardless of my opinion. I can’t change that, but I can listen to what it’s telling me and work with it. And if it wants me to keep an energy sword, then I will.”

“I guess we can use it to open stubborn doors,” Lupe commented.

Amaya gave the energy sword one last look, before clipping it to her utility belt. It swung lightly as she got up.

Then she looked at the body at her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. There was only so much she could do to help—in the end, the other person had to accept what she was offering. Iron-Eyes, for all his fear, had. The other Force Hound was too afraid to see what he’d become.

They had no time to do anything about the body. The package still needed to be delivered, so Amaya stepped around the corpse. They would be using a different route, so it’d have to stay where it was, likely to be eaten by some tunnel-dwelling creatures. 

 

* * *

 

 

The delivery drop-off was just at one of the entrances to the tunnels, in a maintenance box. Like a number of them all over the city, it had a hidden compartment, which only opened to the right code. Someone would pick the package up later, and deliver it wherever it needed to go.

Lupe and Amaya only had to return safely.

“Do you think they’d send anyone else to patrol the tunnels?” she asked Amaya, as they navigated the tunnels. “One Force Hound isn’t much.”

“It’s plenty,” Amaya replied, shaking her head. “Remember what Kha’vir said about training them? It takes time and effort. They’re expensive. Though I wonder if he was here because of us…”

“All the more reasons to send some reinforcements when he doesn’t report back,” Lupe countered.

Amaya nodded. “Yes, you’re right,” she said. “We should be cautious. I don’t think they will want to risk two Force Hounds, but some soldiers are a different matter.” Lupe couldn’t see her face, but she guessed that she was frowning now. She certainly didn’t sound thrilled. “We need a plan. We could easily get crowded here.”

“I vote for not getting found,” Lupe snorted. “It’s the best plan.”

Amaya had to snicker at that. “Certainly. But that requires luck, and luck, sadly, doesn’t exist. So, we need a plan, in case we do run into a patrol..”

“That is a good point,” Lupe conceded. “You will probably sense if anyone is waiting for us. If we can avoid them, we do. If not, we make use of the terrain. Box them in, force them to come at us one at a time.”

It was a pretty basic plan, but then they likely didn’t need more than that. After all, all they had to do was get back safely and not be followed.

 

* * *

 

There had been a patrol, which Amaya had sensed. She had, in fact, sensed it in time for both her and Lupe to find a spot where it was too narrow for more than two people to come at once. Though, unfortunately, not early enough for them to simply find a way to avoid it completely.

There was a tiny problem, though—namely, that the people patrolling weren’t stupid and had hunkered down under cover, and now both they and Lupe and Amaya had been trading the occasional shot to make sure no one was trying anything funny.

It was not going to work. That much Lupe knew.

And it seemed that Amaya had come to the same conclusion, since she mouthed “cover me” and without waiting for Lupe’s reaction jumped into the open. It would have been a suicidal move for anyone else, but Lupe had long since learned that that tended to only mean “slightly more difficult” to Amaya.

Of course, being able to foresee where everyone else would be shooting tended to make things such as avoiding getting shot much easier. Not to mention, Amaya had the dead Force Hound’s energy sword now. She had ignited it the moment she jumped out of cover, bathing everything in green light. It moved quickly in her hands, deflecting incoming shots left and right. It likely was quite entrancing to watch—or possibly terrifying—it might have depended on the side you were on—but Lupe had no time to marvel.

She started shooting back, forcing the enemy soldiers to hunker down until Amaya was on them. It was over quickly then—the nearest soldier toppled over, his head rolling over the ground. The second one flew into the wall and collided with it with an unpleasant crack of breaking bones. The last one started scrambling away, only to be shot in the back.

And then, Lupe noticed that one of the stray shots had hit a pipe. It was leaking sickly yellow fluid now, and the air was starting to smell of something acrid.

“RUN!” she yelled as she turned around and fled, not daring to look behind her and see if Amaya had followed, or if any of the guards had survived to shoot at her. Her mad dash took her towards the nearest crossing, where she threw herself to the side and dove to the ground. A moment later, there was a thump besides her, and a wave of heat and sound rolled over her, pinning her to the mud.

When she looked up, Amaya was picking herself up, and the tunnel behind her was smoldering gently.


	11. Where Fighting Dogs Leads to Unexpected Consequences

Iron-Eyes had been fairly decent at repairing clothes before, but by now he was fairly sure he could sew up holes and apply patches in his sleep. Which was when he discovered he did have some ambition—only it applied to sewing. And so, here he was, with various bits of clothing too damaged to repair, a sewing kit and various materials on how to make something out of nothing.

Oh, and he had his nerves. Really, like anyone needed him to worry about-

No, that was wrong. Amaya was a lot more competent than him. That would have been obvious to anyone. If given a Force Hound’s training, he shuddered to think how terrifying she’d be. So he didn’t have to worry about her, because she was going to be _fine._

So, things. Made of fabric that needed to be remade into something else. That was what he’d be focusing on, rather than pining like some sort of weird maiden from one of the romances his master’s wives liked to read.

Maybe he could use the undamaged parts to make pockets and patches? That seemed like something reasonably easy to start with at least. Having come to this conclusion, he started drawing the shapes, as shown in the manuals. He was on the third possible pocket when he sensed Kha’vir at the door.

There was a knock on the door, which startled him. And there went his nice straight line… He really needed to get used to people giving him the choice not to let them enter, otherwise he’d never get anything done. He put away the sewing kit and went to open the door.

Kha’vir and Cal were both standing outside, the man having clearly just walked up.

“It’s time for another lesson,” Cal said with a grin. “May we come in?”

Iron-Eyes stepped aside, letting both of them pass him.

“We should explain how he needs to act around Force Hounds,” Kha’vir said, once she sat down on the floor. A worn rug had been thrown over it, and more were hanging on the walls to keep the chill out.

“Carefully,” Iron-Eyes replied without really thinking.

Cal’s lips twitched into a grin. “That is sensible advice, but you might want to elaborate some on it. Are there any rules?”

Stupid. He should- No. This was not the time, and Cal had just said it was sensible advice. His inner jerk could shut up. He was not needed.

“Guidelines,” Iron-Eyes replied. “They’re guidelines. They vary a bit from person to person, but generally, you don’t want to make any sudden movements. Especially of the ‘might be drawing a weapon’ kind.”

Cal nodded. “Sensible. I don’t want them deciding I’m a threat.”

“Don’t talk with them,” Iron-Eyes added. “At least, not unless you’re directly ordered to. And don’t try to order them around—even if they don’t take offence, their master will.”

Kha’vir shook her head, and Iron-Eyes started feeling himself blush. He had got something wrong.

“It’s a bit more complex than that,” she said. “None of the slaves would be allowed to order you around, Iron-Eyes, in any situation—but as a slave of the Dictator, Cal, you may be able to get away with it if the Force Hound if the Force Hound belongs to… hm… a legate, for example. And the order sounds sensible.”

Iron-Eyes willed himself to breathe out. That really was something he could've missed. His life didn’t depend on it, and he had to worry about displeasing Illai, and Kha’vir knew. Not knowing one thing _didn’t_ make him useless.

“How about polite suggestions?” Cal asked.

“Those would be safer,” Kha’vir confirmed. “Most slaves I knew were at least slightly scared of Force Hounds. Simurgh was respected, rather than outright feared, but there are cases where every slave will be terrified of the Hound.”

“The ones with yellow eyes,” Iron-Eyes said. “You want to avoid them at all costs. It means… It means trouble.”

He shuddered. Really, saying “yellow eyes” was an understatement—the wrongness was hard to put into words. Still, it was kind of the Force to put up a visual warning on the most dangerous ones.

“You mean, like Illai has? The creepy yellow with red… not-veins?” Cal asked, sounding surprised. “I thought it was a weird rakata thing.”

“It’s a Force thing,” Kha’vir replied. “It only happens if you… hm… how to best explain it? If you invite the abyss into you? It’s so hard to explain.”

Iron-Eyes shook his head. It took all his courage to disagree aloud, but he had to. “It doesn’t really matter what it is—what matters is that they’re the most dangerous of us all..” 

 

* * *

 

 

Amaya and Lupe were not back yet, which worried Berezi. Had they run into trouble, or was he being an old worry-wart? They weren’t late, yet. Eventually, he decided to check if Iron-Eyes could tell him anything.

“Amaya can be hard to track sometimes,” Iron-Eyes explained, once Berezi had spent a while talking about being worried about the two. “But I can sense Lupe, and she’s fine.”

“That does make sense,” Berezi said. “You’re trained to find Force users, aren’t you?”

Iron-Eyes nodded. “It's not that easy, though. Not on a settled planet. It’s easier if I know someone or if I’m close.” He carefully rethreaded the needle he’d been holding and added, “Some Force Hounds are better at it than I am, but I don’t think they’d be able to sense Amaya from far off. They’d need to be close.”

“So you’re telling me they’re mostly safe?” Berezi asked.

Iron-Eyes nodded again. “Yes. The further away you are from someone,, the better you need to know them to sense them. With training, you can extend your reach, but we still need to be in the general vicinity of a given Force user to sense them.” He paused and added, “Most predors train their Force Hounds to be able to sense if a planet is inhabited, but I was too young when Illai became Dictator, and I never learned that.”

Berezi nodded. “Kha’vir said the same. That tracking a specific person is difficult, especially if you don’t have anyone with some sort of a connection to them at hand.”

Iron-Eyes considered this. “I suppose also being related might help. I never tried, given that…” He shrugged. “Well, in any case, they’re fine. Unless they have to change the direction they’re going in, they should be back in a few hours.”

And then, because these things always happen at the worst moment, the proximity alert went off. 

 

* * *

 

 

Where humans lived, there would be dogs of some sort. It was something that the rakata were discovering as they conquered more worlds with a human population. Some would be the descendants of Coruscanti wolves, long driven to extinction, and others would be a local animal that was close enough in temperament to a dog for humans to tame it, like the Corellian razor hounds.

Once upon a time there had been hounds of some sort on Lehon, but the rakata had traded them for sapient slaves long ago, and only the memory of them remained in their language.

But the humans hadn’t, and for every tame canine, there was a feral one—creatures that had escaped their owners and never returned, or had been left behind, or were descended from the other two. They’d roam the edges of the cities, living off rodents and offal. And on Corellia, they also lived in the tunnels.

Kha’vir sometimes wondered about the razor hounds, and specifically their intelligence. She’d seen the tame ones—and those seemed quite smart—but the feral ones seemed to be unable to learn that annoying big groups of humans was unhealthy for them.

They weren’t sick, either. Just hungry.

And then, just as Kha’vir was leaving her room, she saw that she wouldn’t have time to just suggest to the razor hounds to go somewhere else. Iron-Eyes had reacted faster than she did, and like a good Force Hound, he’d reacted to the threat with violence.

Kha’vir felt the Force swell around Iron-Eyes, and a moment later all ten hounds flew into the nearest wall, colliding into one big tumble of teeth, spines and yelps. Five scattered into the tunnels, their terrified yelps echoing in the darkness. The remaining five didn’t rise from the ground—two were just broken bones and meat, glassy eyes staring into nowhere. Three were still alive, making pained noises.

Then, she heard a shot, and the first one slumped down motionless with a neat little hole in its head. Two more shots followed and Cal stepped next to Iron-Eyes.

“Do me a favour, next time, and take a blaster,” he said. “I hate shooting dogs.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Peth was young and inexperienced, but she was not stupid. She knew that if she found Dictator Illai’s Force Hound, she’d have to lead others to him. And then, presumably, fight him. She had no qualms about doing the first—better him than her—but the latter was what gave her pause.

She’d had a chance to go against him in the arena once, and had only survived because it had been previously agreed that they were to fight to the first blood, and there was to be no crippling.

Her predecessor had not been as lucky.

And there’d been her brood-mate, Enth, whose master had sent her to kill Dictator Illai, and who had never even managed to come close to the Dictator. She’d died in the arena, missing an arm and part of her jaw already.

Peth didn’t exactly fancy finding herself in the same position as Enth had.

So, when she sensed Shen during one of her master's trips through the city, she said nothing. Really, it was only sensible. Her master was busy inspecting the slums—a task that was beneath him under normal circumstances, but with the brewing unrest, the military was getting more and more involved.

Shen was busy fighting something, anyway. Maybe it'd kill him before any expedition found him.

Besides, it wasn’t like he was threatening her master directly, was it? In fact, without Shen around, Dictator Illai was more of a target, and her master could probably benefit from that. Somehow. Peth wasn’t sure how, but it wasn’t her job to know that.

“What are you staring at, Peth?” her master sighed. Good, he sounded amused, rather than annoyed, so she didn’t have to find a convincing lie. Then, he turned to legate Tydr, and said, “You know how they are sometimes—distracted by the silliest things.”

Tydr nodded, like the good little sycophant he was, while Peth took up her position at her master’s side.

“So, did you notice anything?” her master asked, and Peth shook her head.

“No, my predor,” she said. “Nothing.”

Tyl’dar sighed again. “Really, sometimes I wonder what it is that she has in her head. It’s certainly not a brain, otherwise she’d know better than to lie to me,” he said to Tydr, as raised his hand. His finger curled inward, mimicking choking, and Peth rose into the air, gasping for breath. Then, Tyl’dar repeated. “Did you notice anything, Peth?”

This time around, Peth didn’t try to weasel out of telling him. With effort, she wheezed out, “Shen. I sensed Dictator Illai’s Force Hound. He’s down there somewhere.”

The pressure on her throat disappeared, and she fell to the ground in a graceless heap. “Was that so hard?” Tyl’dar sighed. “Really, you silly creature, did you think I’d send you to fight him and leave myself open to attacks?”

“The Dictator will want to hear of it, surely,” Tydr said, looking at Tyl’dar intently. He was plotting something, Peth realized. And so did her master. Without looking, he stretched out his hand, lightning shooting out of his fingers. Tydr spasmed.

Then, he fell to the ground, his chest pierced by Peth’s ‘saber.


	12. Where the Rakata Get Outplotted by a Teenage Girl

It all happened so quickly. One moment, her master was a predor in good standing with the Dictator, the next he was accused of treason and about to be executed. He’d marched in to ask for an audience the moment they’d returned. As had become his custom, the Dictator appeared via holo, his head projected over one of the pools in the audience chamber.

The beast in the pool surfaced and snapped at the image for a moment. Then it dove back, having determined that the hologram was not edible.

“What?” Illai snapped. “My time is limited, as is my patience.” Then, before Peth’s master could say anything, he added, “You’d better have an explanation for murdering one of my legates. They’re not some… fruit, they don’t grow on plants. They’re _expensive_.”

Tyl’dar recoiled, as did Peth. This was not good. She could tell—the Dictator was already angry. Still, surely, the news that his Force Hound had been found would make him happy?

“My lord,” Peth’s master said, “I’ve news you may want to hear first, before you concern yourself with matters as trivial as a legate’s misdeeds and execution. My Force Hound has found your Force Hound.”

Illai looked at Tyl’dar blankly for an uncomfortably long moment before saying in a deceptively bland voice, “What Force Hound?”

Tyl’dar faltered. “Yours, my Lord.” He glanced at Peth, who quickly mouthed ‘Shen’, so her master could repeat it.

“Are you implying I am so incompetent as to misplace a Force Hound?” Illai drawled.

“No, no, my lord,” Tyl’dar said. “He… ah… ran away with a human female.”

Peth barely managed to stop herself from wincing. This would not appease Illai. He’d clearly decided he was going to punish her master for something.

“So you are implying I’m too incompetent to train one properly,” Illai said with a snort. “I’ve seen through your lies, Tyl’dar. You seek to confuse me, but I won’t fall it. I’ve never head a Force Hound, after all. Horrid things, with their sniffing at your mind and intentions. And dumb too—really, why would I be so stupid as to trust a lesser creature with my safety?”

Peth was starting to feel a bit dizzy. This made no sense. Illai had had a Force Hound, how could he claim he hadn't? Was this some sort of a game?

“Push him into the pool,” Illai said. “Ferocious looked hungry.”

As was the custom in such situations, two legates had moved to restrain Peth with the Force, lest she jump to her master’s aid, while two others lifted Tyl’dar and threw him into the pool. For a moment, he thrashed about, and then he stilled. Blood pooled around him, until his upper half was pulled under.

They let her go then—she had no reason to fight now that her master was dead, after all. Peth stumbled, uncertain. What would happen to her now? She was as yet untested, but still a trained Force Hound. Someone would claim her, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t execute her, just because…

Except, Illai had just ordered her master’s execution just because. And she was only a slave. A Force sensitive one, in whose training her master had invested a lot of time, but, in the end, replaceable. If Illai would kill her master for nonsense, then he’d have no qualms to execute her for existing.

She moved her hand to her side as unobtrusively as possible. If she was to die, she wouldn’t go down quietly. She’d take others with her.

“You,” Illai snapped at her, “Hound. You sensed my idiot Force Hound?”

Peth gaped, shocked at how suddenly he was acknowledging that he’d had Shen. Or perhaps it all had been a trick to get rid of her master? Then, she realized the longer she dawdled being confused, the more annoyed Illai would grow.

Without prompting, she fell to her knees and stammered a “Y-yes, my lord.”

He snorted. “And he went off with some female, did he?” The distaste in his voice was almost palpable. “Well, don’t you stand there, you stupid thing! Bring Shen and the female. Maybe he can do something useful for once and father a child that will be of some use.”

The hologram winked out, and Peth rose to her feet unsteadily.

She was doomed. Maybe she could have beaten Shen, but the damn bastard was crafty and likely had time to prepare for an attack. And he wouldn’t be alone. He’d be with the terrorist woman, and Peth wanted to face her even less then Shen.

But she had no choice. It was death either way. The only choice she had was how she’d die.

As she walked, several guards joined her. One, a young dug, grinned nastily at her. “Thought you’d be going alone and running away?”

She nearly punched him then, but then the meaning of his words sunk in. She _could_ escape. It was really amazing how she’d never thought about it before, but now that they’d mentioned it, she realized that it was another possibility she had.

All she had to do was kill the guards. She could do that. 

 

* * *

 

 

As they traversed the city, Peth had been planning. At first, she’d intended to kill the guards as soon as she was certain no one would see her. She didn’t want anyone alerting the palace—the her best bet was on them assuming she’d died in the attempt. But she was fairly sure that she’d only be able to kill the guards unnoticed once they were in the sewers.

Why was Shen hiding in the sewers? Surely, he could have found a nicer place to hide.

Then, it occurred to her that she didn’t know where to go once she’d escaped. She couldn’t exactly walk up to Shen and the terrorist woman and ask them to join—especially since she didn’t plan on joining them. That sounded suicidal.

Besides, she didn’t want the Empire to fall. Without it… well, all she needed to do was look at Corellia to guess what would happen if humans were allowed to govern themselves. They were surly creatures, and secretive to boot. And cunning. They’d back-stab themselves into oblivion.

And she could list reasons why other species would similarly be doomed without guidance: the wookiees were too warlike in nature, the Dathomirian witches would likely eat their men alive if allowed, and so on.

But she wasn’t about to die for the Empire either, now that she had a choice. It was big. Her escape would change nothing on a grand scale.

Which brought her back to her original point. Once she was in the sewers, finding Shen and the terrorist woman was the logical next step. So was staying with them—it wasn’t like she could just hide among the law-abiding Corellians, what with being a zygerrian with a letter tattooed on her face. She’d stand out too much.

But how to convince them to let her stay?

She needed to think like a human. So, what would Shen do? She tried to remember the fights she'd watched in the arena to get some sort of an idea. He tended to use his environment to his advantage… What could _she_ use to her advantage? She glanced at the guards, and fought the urge to grin.

She had six sources of information for the terrorists with her. Surely, they’d like such a generous gift? 

 

* * *

 

 

It was the first time that Iron-Eyes joined Amaya, Cal and Lupe as they left their base of operations. Not that it was going to be a long hike, only to the sewers that were connected with the tunnels, where a Force Hound had been spotted. On screen, she was a lithe creature, though Iron-Eyes had the impression she was also quite tall.

There had been guards with her—about six of them.

The Force Hound had clearly spotted the camera but didn’t alert anyone. Instead, she tossed one guard into another with the Force, while nearly simultaneously hitting a third on the back of the head with her 'saber hilt. The three remaining ones tried to shoot her then, but she vaulted over them and kicked the fourth guard in the back.

The two others continued shooting, apparently deciding that the loss of a colleague was preferable to whatever the Hound was planning. Still, she didn’t ignite her ‘saber, even as the guard before her was shot. Instead, she jumped again and pushed with the Force, sending the two guards into the wall.

Then, she tied them up with their jackets.

She was quite good. Iron-Eyes had wondered why she hadn’t made more use of her surroundings—throwing the guards into the sewage and holding them under for a while would have knocked them out too, after all. But in the end, it was the result that mattered, and not the means.

But once the fight was over, the Force Hound seemed to be out of her depth. She looked at the hidden camera again, then to the guards, and then her shoulders slumped in defeat.

It was suspicious. It really was. He wasn’t just jealous that she had taken the initiative and run, was he? After all, Amaya had had to break his bond with Illai for him to even consider the possibility.

“Her master could have died,” Amaya said. “But we will be careful.” Then, she turned to Lupe. “Do we have a plan?”

“Yes,” Lupe said. “Cal and I will follow your lead. You two are the experts.”

“Well, then, Iron-Eyes,” Amaya said. “If we have to fight her, what do we do?”

“Do you want her alive and undamaged, or dead, or wounded?” he asked. That at least was something he was familiar with.

“If she’s still bonded with her master, I will need her occupied until I can sense the bond’s weakness,” Amaya said. “Can you do that?”

Iron-Eyes thought of what he’d seen on the screen. Distracted meant conscious, which meant he couldn’t just toss some debris at her head. He could try blinding her with the sewage, though.

“If Cal and Lupe can keep her pinned in one place, I can do that,” he eventually said. “Don’t try to shoot her directly—she will be able to deflect blaster fire.” 

 

* * *

 

 

It was an hour since she’d knocked the guards out that the terrorists and Shen found her. A very frustrating hour, since four of the guards had woken up and one tried escaping, so she had to cut off his leg. The fifth was still out cold.

But eventually, a light appeared in the tunnel, and then four people emerged from the darkness: the terrorist woman in the lead, Shen in tow. Behind them, there was a short muscular woman and a human man with dark hair.

Peth was starting to wish she understood human language. They kept switching back to it to discuss things, and she couldn’t tell how convincing she was being. She sensed their suspicion, how it colored every look they gave her and every word they said to her. It was sensible not to trust her, she supposed, and yet she couldn’t help but chafe at the unfairness of it.

Hadn’t she brought them five sources of information? Hadn’t she made sure they could find her easily? But it seemed she hadn’t earned their trust yet, unlike Shen. He stood to the side, silent and tense. To his left, the other man stood—this was one was quite handsome, and he at least seemed mildly impressed with her. The short woman and the terrorist woman, however, were just stern.

She’d, grudgingly, let the terrorist woman poke around her head, since that could get them to trust her.

“Do you know her?” the short woman asked Shen, who nodded.

“Peth,” he said curtly. It was the first time she’d heard him speak, and she was surprised that his accent was so uncultured. Didn’t his master think better and teach him proper diction? “Her master is predor Tyl’dar. Decent enough, according to Illai. I fought her once. She’s improved.”

“My master is dead,” she said firmly once more. “For treason. If I return, I'll be executed, too. I don’t want to take sides. I just want to stay away from the Dictator.”

She noticed Shen’s expression flicker for a moment, and—yes, she sensed disapproval from him, and then from the others. Clearly, that had been the wrong answer, but they couldn’t really expect her to just announce she wanted to join them and fight for a lost cause.

“Do you think that if you sit back, eat our food and sleep in our beds the rakata will see you as less treasonous?” the terrorist woman asked, her pale blue eyes narrowed in anger. “Or do you perhaps forgot you’ve handed us four guards on a silver platter?”

Peth swallowed. All of a sudden, she was keenly aware of how a tooka might feel upon meeting a nexu. And there was a point to what she was saying.

“Um… then I will help?” she said quickly. “I can fight for you.”

“Well, you likely are a decent fighter from what we’ve seen,” the woman said, making Peth flush with embarrassment. She bit her lip, knowing that by getting flustered she’d betrayed that she’d yet to see _real_ combat. The woman continued mercilessly, “But all of us can say the same.”

“And um… I can learn other stuff!” Peth blurted out quickly. “I really can. And… and I can tell you stuff about the rakatan army!”

“That may be useful,” the short woman said. “Let’s hear what she can tell us and see if it will help. Iron-Eyes, Amaya, can you tell us if she starts lying?” Then she nodded to the man. “Cal, blindfold her and the guards.”


	13. Where Peth Makes Impressions

The girl was from some sort of canine-like species that Iron-Eyes had identified as zygerrian. She was, on the whole, a surprisingly attractive creature, with burgundy fur and golden eyes. The chocolate brown tattoo blended with the pinkish skin of her face, and overall, she just didn’t seem to be very warrior-like.

But then, who did? Iron-Eyes was shorter than her and skinny, Cal looked like someone who'd be more at home at a party, and Amaya didn’t look warrior-like either until she was fighting.

Still, Alia saw certain similarities in demeanor between her and Iron-Eyes. A kind of constant wariness, the tendency to scan her surroundings every once in a while. But where "Iron-Eyes was restless and skittish during conversation, the girl seemed to be eager, confident even, in the way teenagers can be before they learn their limits.

“Sit down, please,” she said, and the Force Hound did so gracefully. “And now tell me why you’re here.”

“Well, my master was executed for treason, and I’d be too, likely, unless I brought him and her to the Dictator,” she said, indicating Iron-Eyes and Amaya. “And I didn’t like my odds, so I decided to be sensible and save myself instead.”

Alia caught Amaya nodding minutely. The girl was telling the truth then—she held no personal loyalty to the Dictator, it seemed, but on the other hand, she was also clearly motivated by the will to survive. An instinct that all living beings shared, and one that should not be begrudged, but its strength in the girl made her an unreliable ally.

Perhaps, with time, she would grow to care about others and would wish to protect their lives as fiercely as her own, but it was a risky gamble. One that could pay off in her betraying them if it meant she’d save the lives she cared about.

“I see,” Alia said. “An uncertain doom is better than certain death?”

The girl nodded. “I didn’t come empty-handed, either. I brought the guards with me as hostages and informants. Uh… I might have killed two, it’s a bit hard to knock people out without damaging them badly.” She paused. “Except that the Dictator has a very dim view of anyone, let alone a slave, doing such things, so… um… I kind of have no choice but to stay with you?”

“It is your best chance of survival for now,” Alia replied and saw the girl relax minutely. “But we must consider the long term too, and if it will benefit us to have you.”

The girl took a deep breath and said, “I know about the troops stationed on Corellia—how many, what units and so on. I can tell you which of them each predor is responsible for.” She laced her hands tightly. “I could… I could teach you how to fight with a ‘saber too. And other skills of a Force Hound.”

She glanced at Amaya and Iron-Eyes uncertainly. Amaya had remained impassive, but Iron-Eyes frowned. Alia recalled he’d never offered to do either of those, nor had Amaya made any moves to ask about learning such skills.

“You’d be stronger,” the girl added, hesitantly.

“If we fought, who’d win?” Amaya asked.

The girl flinched then. “Well, you, but… but there are people who are more powerful than you.”

“More powerful or scarier?” Amaya asked.

“I… oh.” The girl seemed to grow thoughtful then. “But if I teach you, then you will know better how to fight other Force Hounds. And rakata. I mean… I didn’t want to run away when my master was alive. It’s really not so bad. You don’t have to worry that you will make a wrong choice, because your master knows better-“

“What if he doesn’t?” Iron-Eyes said suddenly.

The girl turned around to look at him, but Alia caught her confused expression. “But… That’s not possible? You can’t have a Force Hound and not be smarter than the Hound! You can’t teach and control someone smarter than you.”

Alia restrained herself from commenting. This was not the time to launch into a lecture on learning and teaching, and how the girl's notions of the subject were wrong.

“I will leave the decision about this particular offer of yours to Amaya for consideration,” she said. “You can discuss the fallibility of rakata later. I’m sure Kha’vir would like to join in. I will want a sample of what you know about the predors later. For now, let’s go back to why you were here. How did you find us?”

The girl seemed to relax a bit. “Well, mostly, I was lucky—I sensed him fighting and I guess the Dictator figured that he’d be with her, since he ran away with her. I didn’t tell anyone where I sensed you, though. And I only got as far as the sewers, and if you hadn’t shown up-“

Alia held up her hand to stall her. “Why did Illai send you now?”

The girl shrugged helplessly. “I guess because he didn’t have a trail? And then my master told him I sensed him, so I guess that’s why. I’m not sure if he will send anyone else, though. I mean, he was insisting he never had a Force Hound to my master’s face before, because he’d never be so incompetent as to train one that’d run away, and so on. So, maybe he’ll go back to thinking that.”

It was possible, if unlikely. For all they knew, he’d send more search parties. Alia glanced at Cal and then turned to Amaya. “Please find a room for our guest—Peth, you will go with her. Then, please ask Kha’vir to come. I believe we’ve matters to discuss.”

 

* * *

 

Iron-Eyes seemed to be furious with Peth, even after she’d left. Cal could guess why, though it was quite disconcerting, when compared to his usual meekness.

Some people were disastrous when they had to interact with one another. Cal had not expected to see Iron-Eyes have a dynamic like that with anyone, but apparently, Peth had somehow managed to find the exact thing to say to actually anger Iron-Eyes. Everything about his posture when the girl started talking about being a Force Hound screamed of restrained fury, down to the tightly balled fists. It was actually impressive in a way.

But perhaps it was not completely unexpected. After all, from what both Iron-Eyes and Kha’vir had told him, Force Hounds were constantly being compared to one another. Competitiveness between them was encouraged. And training like that took time to unlearn—time that Iron-Eyes did not have.

Similarly, realizing that the way Peth had spoken about Force Hounds was indicative of an abusive upbringing—it was patently absurd someone who'd successfully engineered her own escape from slavery would insist that every single rakata was smarter than her, but that _had_ been the gist of it—that would also not be something Iron-Eyes was yet ready to notice.

But that’d have to be addressed later. For now, Kha’vir had joined them, looking as unruffled as always.

“It seems we may need to bump up our plans,” Alia said. She sounded a bit put out, but no more than someone realizing they'd have to make a salad instead of the sus ribs they'd planned on. “Iron-Eyes, Kha’vir, do you think Cal is ready?”

“He knows all that he needs to know,” Kha’vir said with conviction. It was quite gratifying to hear, Cal had to admit. “I’d like to have him practice some more to be sure, but if he must go now, then we can still hope for success.”

“Iron-Eyes?” Alia asked, turning to look at the former Force Hound, who turned to her. Finally, some of the anger seemed to die down.

“He’ll do fine,” he said quickly. Then, he hesitated, before squaring his shoulders and adding, “It sounds like Illai is growing more erratic.”

“That is one of the reasons why we’re bumping up the time frame,” Cal guessed, “isn’t it?”

“Precisely,” Alia replied. “It will also mean you will need to be extremely cautious. We cannot make any predictions as to what Illai will do or won’t do anymore.”

Cal grinned then. It was a nice grin—a little bit cocky, to be sure, a little bit provocative. “Well then, I will have to make sure I’m the most inoffensive creature Illai ever had the opportunity to treat like furniture, won’t I?”

“Very well,” Alia said. “Then please start making your preparations, Cal. I will inquire as to when it will be possible for you to infiltrate the palace.”

 

* * *

 

Peth had followed the terrorist woman—Amaya—obediently until the latter had opened one of the doors and motioned for Peth to step inside. She peered cautiously over Amaya’s shoulder then, making sure the room was unoccupied, and stepped inside only after she ascertained that there was no execution squad inside.

It was quite a plain room—there was only a bed and a container inside, where she likely was to store her belongings, meager as they were. But there were rugs on the walls and floor to keep the warmth in, and it was her own room. That in itself was a novelty.

“Did you only run away because your master died?” Amaya asked. She seemed to be curious, mostly.

“Yes,” Peth replied quickly. The very thought of being disloyal towards Tyl’dar made her queasy. She had to suppress a shiver, but the unease remained like a coldness in her stomach and limbs. “My master was always good to me.” Then, she quickly amended that, because it sounded a bit too much like she was making him out to be a pushover, she realized with growing discomfort. Her breath was now coming in short gasps, and her voice rose higher. “I mean, aside from when I did something wrong or something he didn’t like, or when he was angry.”

It was only then that she realized that Amaya was giving her an incredulous look and she wondered just how terrible a Dictator Illai must have been to make these people think her master was bad. Well, always bad. He sometimes was quite unpleasant, really.

Not that she’d ever admit it to anyone. They might think badly of him, and she didn’t want that. The very thought made her made her almost lose her breath, and there was a pain in her chest.

It took her another moment to realize that her master wouldn’t care anymore how anyone thought of him, now that he was dead.

“Is everything all right?” Amaya asked, looking at her with concern. “You look a bit under the weather.”

Peth shook her head, trying to make her thoughts still. Why was she so nervous all of a sudden?

“I’m fine,” she said. Her voice was still shrill to her ears, shaking somewhat as she spoke. “I just- I never ran away before.”

She blinked away tears, ashamed of her ridiculous reaction. What was wrong with her?

“Of course,” Amaya said gently. She’d reached out towards Peth, but hadn’t touched her. “You must be tired and hungry. Perhaps you’d like to lie down, and I will get you something to eat? Or would you rather I stay with you for a moment longer?”

She should have asked for the food. Peth knew this was the logical choice, but she couldn’t. Instead, she timidly took Amaya’s hand and squeaked out “Stay, please.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, Peth had fallen asleep without eating anything. She’d only clung to Amaya and cried silently, as if afraid to make any noise. She hadn’t said another word, either, too over-whelmed to speak. Amaya had sensed her emotions change like a whirlwind, though the near-panic had thankfully passed.

Whatever the rakata had done to the girl, it left her unable to voice even the slightest criticism of her former owner. It had been unsettling enough to stand by and sense it happen—being the one experiencing it would have been quite terrifying. Or perhaps the stress of the day had compounded the anxiety it’d have caused her normally?

Before, the girl seemed to have been dealing with human contact much better than Iron-Eyes did even now, but it seemed she had limits.

Quietly, Amaya locked the door behind her. Though she felt sorry for Peth, she wasn’t planning on trusting her anytime soon. She hadn’t sensed deceit from her, true, but she did notice that the girl hadn’t considered anyone else’s well-being but her own. Which meant that she’d be their ally as long as it served her.

Perhaps, with time, she’d learn to look at the world differently.

“We will have to teach her,” Kha’vir said, when Amaya joined her for dinner. “You sense it from her, do you not? There is a shadow upon her, in the Force, and if we do not show her the way, it will swallow her up.”

Amaya nodded slowly. “And I guess you know how to do it?”

Kha’vir shook her head. “I know how you end up where she is, but I can only guess at what might lead her out.”

Amaya took a bite of her protein bar and waited for the explanation.

“Once you are ready to sacrifice everything for one goal, then you step into the shadows,” Kha’vir explained. “Each day, deeper and deeper, until you forget that you are a part of the universe.” She paused. “The way we—the rakata—explain this is imperfect, but we can work from there. Imagine the Force as an ocean. Most people who use the Force remain close to the surface, where it’s safest. But if you dive deeper, where the pressure gets stronger and where the most terrifying predators lurk, you will grow stronger to survive.”

Amaya frowned. “There’s something not right about this explanation.”

Kha’vir nodded. “Of course. Because what you’re expected to do is dive into a dark cave, where nothing else will ever touch you and only you exist.”

“Well, that’s not very helpful for living in a society,” Amaya commented. “Isn’t that a bit… counterproductive for training your body-guards?”

Kha’vir nodded. “That’s why Force Hounds are rare and bonded to their master. Ideally, a Force Hound’s goal for which they will sacrifice anything else will be to survive, and surviving tends to mean keeping their master alive.”

And once again, Amaya couldn’t help but wonder about Tamid. Was that what had happened to him? Or had he died?

But there was nothing she could do for him. All she could do was try to help the two Force Hounds who were there now.


	14. Where Cal Examines Power Dynamics

It took a whole week for Cal to find himself safely in the Dictator’s palace. Well, safely enough, given that he was pretending to be a slave to the rakata, and that was something that might significantly shorten his lifespan. But with risks such as those, one could only face them.

And there was, apparently, always someone who needed to prove they were the biggest, meanest dog in the kennel, even if you were at the very bottom of the hierarchy and would have done better by banding together.

“You, new guy,” one of the slaves said, jabbing Cal in the chest. He was of the same species as Peth, with brown fur, but built more like an armored wall. “You look like you might need a lesson in respect.”

The sentence told Cal everything he needed to know. The man didn’t have anything against Cal personally—he merely needed an example to keep the other slaves cowed. And Cal, being new, had not made any friends yet. No one would take offence to him beating Cal up.

Unfortunately, Cal had to make sure that he stayed healthy and couldn’t earn a reputation for trouble-making. Unfortunately, his usual method of dealing with people like that would make him stand out too much, and so he’d have to rely on groveling.

Which, unfortunately, was hit-and-miss when it came to situations like this. Perhaps a show of subservience would work to appease whatever had Mr Alpha Slave looking for an easy punching bag, or Cal would still have to take his lumps.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, looking down and doing his best to look meek. “Please don’t hurt me, sir.”

The man huffed, but seemed to be satisfied with the show of submission. “I’ll let you go for now, but we will talk later about proper ways to show respect to your seniors.”

Cal kept his expression carefully scared and meek. It wasn’t an entirely unexpected development, and sex was something Cal knew how to use to his advantage. Not that Mr Alpha Slave knew, but then if he did, he likely would have beaten Cal up.

But for now, his attention was diverted, and so Cal quickly relocated himself to the bed he’d been assigned, just as the overseer announced that it was time to bring Illai his medicine. Mr Alpha Slave trotted over, puffed up with pride, and Cal had to fight the urge to grin.

How lucky for him that someone with direct access to Illai wanted to spend some alone time with him…

 

* * *

 

Mr Alpha Slave—Ion, as Cal had found—had not returned for the night. He’d only came back in the morning, with a sloppy bandage applied to his jaw. It didn’t look like anyone had tried to sew or glue the wound together, given that the dark red stain was spreading slowly, and Cal wondered if it had been properly cleaned.

Still, it didn’t seem to be a life-threatening thing yet, and clearly only made Ion’s mood fouler. This time around, Cal was not about to wait to become a target—he wasn’t about to deal with Ion until it fit _his_ timeline. So, like a good slave, he joined all the others in vacating the slave quarters.

Once outside, the overseer was assigning tasks. Cal, by virtue of being newest, was assigned to polishing some sort of silver sculpture alongside an ancient. It was a task clearly designed to weed out idiots, Cal decided, as he looked at the sculpture. It was a rakata, standing atop a pile of dead and dying humans.

There was far too many hard-to-clean parts on it, as far as Cal was concerned. Nor was it aesthetically pleasing enough for him to enjoy looking on it. Though, he suspected aesthetics was the last thing that had been considered when making that monstrosity.

It also seemed that either the old slave’s sight was too bad for cleaning silver, or he was very transparently trying to sabotage their efforts. The second option was so mind-bogglingly stupid that at first Cal discounted it completely, and simply continued polishing whatever the old man had missed.

Eventually, the old slave seemed to have decided that addressing Cal was not beneath him.

“So, how did a local end up being enslaved?” he asked. “You people are so tribal here.”

Cal shrugged. “Bad luck, I suppose. Sometimes, all you’ve got to sell is yourself.”

The older slave nodded. “I’m Rhys, by the way.”

“Jaris,” Cal replied, giving his assumed name. “So, how did you end up here?”

“My mother was in the service of the Dictator’s grandfather, so eventually he inherited me,” Rhys explained. He sounded quite matter-of-fact, which shouldn't have been surprising, once Cal thought about it. Even if Rhys resented being a slave, he wouldn’t voice it in the palace, where someone might overhear.

“So you’re kind of like an heirloom?” Cal asked half-jokingly.

“An aged snack, more like,” Rhys replied with a shrug. “Though I might be too sinewy for anyone’s taste.”

“I guess I’m the likelier snack, then?” Cal commented. The idea made him rather uneasy, but it seemed that Rhys was at least comfortable enough with it to joke about it, so he’d follow his lead for now.

“A healthier one too,” Rhys said dryly. “If you run that is.”

“Well, I suppose every opportunity for exercise is a good one,” Cal replied. He noticed that Rhys had positioned himself behind the sculpture and had been polishing one area stubbornly. He decided not to make any comments—really, it had been obvious from the start that he'd be doing most of the work, and the old slave could at least prove a valuable source of information.

“So, what’s Ion’s deal? Is he so friendly with everyone, or am I a special case?” he asked.

“I’m sure you know his type,” Rhys replied. “Just keep your head down and wait until he finds someone else to bully.”

Cal nodded. He was at least going to put on the appearance of doing just that, and he suspected that Rhys would feel appreciated if his advice was treated with a certain respect. Eventually, he hoped that the old slave might start sharing more useful bits of information, but there’d be time for that.

And in the meantime, Cal only had to make sure he didn’t run out of small talk and pretend he didn’t notice the old man using every moment to do nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

It occurred to Kha’vir that they had only avoided a disaster because Iron-Eyes’ favourite method of resolving conflict was avoiding it like the plague. Which meant he’d been doing his best to never be in Peth’s presence. The girl in turn was happy to avoid him too, which was in all likelihood for the best.

Although it seemed that he at least wasn’t going to simply stew in his emotions, since he did come to her to talk.

“You’re angry,” Kha’vir said, once she deemed that Iron-Eyes had spent enough time staring stubbornly at the floor.

He hesitated before answering, no doubt wondering if he ought to lie to her. “She’s going to go back to them.”

Kha’vir guessed that he meant Peth would go back to the rakata. It was not a lie either—he seemed to sincerely believe that. Given what the girl had said, it wasn’t really surprising either—she seemed to truly believe she was better off as a slave, and it seemed that Iron-Eyes was too close to the issue for him to feel any empathy towards Peth for this.

They should have expected as much. Pain as raw as his was all-consuming, sometimes. And Peth had unknowingly hit him in one of the many sore spots in his soul.

“Perhaps,” Kha’vir said. “Perhaps not. We can’t know for sure.”

“Of course you can,” Iron-Eyes said. For once he’d forgotten to keep his voice low. It spoke volumes of just how agitated he was that he'd raised it. “Didn't you hear her? How she spoke of her master? She only ran because my- because Illai is irrational. Get rid of him, and she will trot back like a- a- dog and will thank them for another beating.”

“Or maybe she will find out that isn't what she wants, once she sees that things can be different,” Kha’vir replied. “You don’t know that. We need to give her time to change her mind.”

Iron-Eyes snorted. “Why would she? She loves them. She practically said we both deserved being enslaved, because we’re too stupid to be free. Well, she thinks that, then she can go back and maybe this time she ends up with a master who shows her how it really is.”

“I think she does know,” Kha’vir replied. “And she’s just afraid of admitting it. I’m not telling you not to be angry with her for what she said—she _is_ wrong. But think what the logical conclusion would be for us, if we decided you were right.”

To his credit, Iron-Eyes did stop to think then. “If she did suffer, why is she defending them, then? I never- …I did it too, didn’t I? When I’d say that I’m terrible and hopeless, and all those things, I was also saying that Illai was right to treat me badly, because I didn’t deserve any better.”

He ran his hands over his face. “I can’t- I can’t deal with her. I just can’t.”

“No one is asking you to,” Kha’vir replied. “But you don’t have to make yourself miserable over her either.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t understand how you’re so strong,” Peth said, looking at Amaya as if she were some bizarre creature. “I mean… good for you and everything, but you’re so calm.”

Amaya felt rather nonplussed by the statement. “What does one have to do with the other?” she asked.

Peth seemed to be equally confused by her question. In fact, for a moment, she seemed to be at a loss for words, as if Amaya had challenged some sort of fundamental law of physics, like gravity.

“But that’s how it works,” Peth replied. “Emotions give you strength. Without them, how will you motivate yourself or force the Force to do what you want?”

“Being calm is not the same as being emotionless,” Amaya pointed out, still somewhat bemused. “And I never had to _force_ the Force to do anything. I let it act through me.”

That seemed to be baffling too. It was almost as if they were speaking two different languages.

“But what if it decides that it’d rather help the other person?” Peth asked.

Amaya frowned, considering her answer. This likely tied back to the conversation she and Kha’vir had had on the way rakata, and by extension Force Hounds, viewed the Force. “Everything dies,” Amaya replied eventually. “People, planets, stars… Eventually, everything comes to an end. When my day comes, then it will come. There’s no use worrying about it or getting angry about it, since it hadn’t happened yet, though.”

Peth shook her head. “How can you think like that? It’s _unfair_.”

“Why?” Amaya asked, now genuinely curious. “Wouldn’t it be more unfair if I were immortal and everything else would die?”

“But it’s not when you’re ready,” Peth protested. “It just happens. Why should I die, and not the other person? Why shouldn’t I do everything to survive?”

Amaya could answer a number of things. She could ask why any of the hypothetical fighters needed to die. She could point out that sometimes there was no other choice, or that sometimes, the only choice you had was letting another die or dying yourself. But would any of this sound convincing to the girl?

Perhaps not, but then Amaya realized there was another argument she could make.

“It’s not the question of not making sure I survive or not,” Amaya replied. “It’s that I will not let fear rule me. Death may come, or it may not. What use is there in cowering before the inevitable?”

Peth stared at her with something between horror and confusion. It didn’t seem like she found the argument convincing at all. “I’m not afraid,” she said defiantly after a while. “But I’m not just going to meekly sit by and accept-“

“Does it look like I’m doing that?” Amaya asked coolly.

The girl stepped back then. “No. I… just… I don’t understand you at all.”

“Don’t you?” Amaya asked. “Or you don’t want to?”

Peth looked at the ground then—her defiance was still there, but she at least seemed to considering what Amaya had said. “That’s not… I’m not like you. I’m not special. I can’t break chains and make myself not be afraid.”

Amaya slid her fingers under the girl’s chin then and gently made her look up at her. “You ran away all on your own, Peth, to seek help from people who you’ve been told would kill you. I think you’re a lot better at facing your fears than you think.”

“But I’m still afraid,” Peth said in a small voice. She seemed ashamed to admit it, like it was some sort of grave failing.

“Everyone is,” Amaya replied. “What matters is what you do about it—when I say I won’t let fear control me, I don’t mean I will stop myself from being afraid. That’s not how it works. You fear things for a reason—because they’re dangerous, because they may hurt you. But if you let this fear overpower you, then you might end up in the very danger you were trying to avoid. So, what you can do—and you already did this once that I know of—is do things despite it.”


	15. Where the Nature of Power Is an Eternal Mystery

It took two weeks for Ion to tragically part with his life. Such things happened when you didn’t clean wounds properly and then ran around with a fever. Of course, falling down the stairs during the night was rather embarrassing, but Ion had at least had the decency to do so in a less-used part of the palace, so no one important got offended by finding a dead slave they hadn’t killed.

Cal had made sure that no one knew Ion had needed some help with parting with his life. He suspected that someone might have objected, even if Ion’s charm was so deeply buried that it might as well not exist.

By then, Cal also knew that serving Illai wasn’t exactly a distinction. No one was at a point where that only troublemakers would be assigned to that duty, but it clearly was heading in that direction. As it was, a new but competent slave proved to be just what the overseer wanted.

Had Cal been superstitious, he’d have started worrying things were going too smoothly. Then again, this would have been because he hadn’t seen Illai yet, before he had this thought.

It wasn’t hard to tell something was wrong with the Dictator. Cal couldn’t take a good look at him—furniture didn’t stare—but he managed to notice that Illai’s eyes were a sickly yellow, the iris surrounded by a blood-red ring. He was also sweating, the smell unpleasantly sharp despite aromatic candles. All they accomplished was making the temperature in the room higher.

The doctor seemed to be nervous, as far as Cal could tell. He was fiddling with a notebook to mask the shaking of his hands. That didn’t bother Cal too much. What he didn’t like was that he was also hovering over Cal, watching his every move like an ugly blue hawk. It looked like he’d need to practice his sleight of hand, eventually.

For now, though, he had to survive with two rakata in the room.

“Are you loyal, doctor?” Illai suddenly asked.

“Of course, my lord,” the other alien replied hastily. “No one on Corellia would dare to betray you.”

Cal felt the urge to smack his forehead at the blatant ridiculousness of the statement. Never mind that rakata had made back-stabbing into their favourite pastime, there was a whole rebellion going on. Of course, it was disputable if rebelling against an invader counted as betrayal, but Cal suspected Illai would definitely claim that it did.

“Yes, you’re loyal,” Illai repeated, as if he hadn’t heard the doctor. “You’re too stupid to betray me. There are traitors everywhere here. I can’t leave my rooms, lest they murder me. My own family would be rid of me, if they could.”

The doctor seemed to be uncomfortable, but didn’t say anything. Cal supposed it was as reasonable a reaction as any, given that no one seemed to know what would or wouldn’t set Illai off.

“But I will make them pay,” Illai continued. “Oh yes.” Then he turned around and barked at the doctor. “Where’s that useless, toothless Hound I’m forced to content myself with? I’ve a task for him!”

“Ah… H-he ran away, my lord,” the doctor whimpered, nudging Cal forward to hand Illai the medicine.

Illai stared at him, before snatching the glass with the medicine and drinking it in one draught.

 

* * *

 

Serving Illai had been quite nerve-wrecking, but Cal wasn’t going to get any time to recharge and relax. Apparently, the rakata had not figured out that happy workers were more efficient ones. Not that it surprised Cal. They seemed to be bent on making everyone miserable, as if happiness and satisfaction were finite resources, and would run out if shared.

Really, it was small wonder that everyone in the palace was some degree of miserable. The woman he was currently cleaning an undescribable mess in a recently vacated nursery took that to an art form, though. She was almost incandescent with pent up rage, as she gathered old algae and other water plants with the kind of energy usually reserved for slaying foes, or possibly customer service bathroom breaks.

“Need any help with that?” Cal asked, since he was mostly done scrubbing the artistic ventures of tiny rakata from the wall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Qi’ra,” she growled. “It’s Qi’ra. Not Kira.”

Cal blinked. “Your name doesn’t sound like Kira at all.”

Qi’ra whirled around then—Cal was starting to wonder if she’d discovered a way to make anger fuel human energy, because she seemed to be far too energetic—and seized him up. “I know. No one bothers to pronounce it right anyway.”

“That’s a pity,” Cal replied with his best charming grin. “Qi’ra is a lovely name.”

She blushed then and looked away, long lashes shadowing her eyes. Now that she wasn’t glowering, Cal thought it safe enough to look at her longer than a glance without upsetting her further. Her hair was black and straight, cropped close to her skull, and her skin was surprisingly pale. Once she looked up at him again, he could see that her eyes were hooded with a minimal epicanthal fold.

“And you’re..?” Qi’ra asked, as she sized him up with curiosity. She’d taken a few steps closer and had to look up at him—he was as tall as Amaya, which was still pretty tall for a man, and Qi’ra came up to his shoulder.

“Jaris,” Cal replied. “I’m afraid I’ve a rather boring name.”

“At least no one can mispronounce it,” she said with a sigh.

“I think that depends on the creativity of the person pronouncing it,” Cal replied. “Though I can’t claim I’ve met anyone who’d do that so far.” Then he smiled at her wryly. “But enough about me—we’ve work to do, don’t we?”

 

* * *

 

“Why do you call him Iron-Eyes?” Peth asked Kha’vir. Then, hastily, she added, “My Lady.”

“I think I’m no longer a lady,” Kha’vir replied wryly. “I didn’t kill my father in a properly lady-like fashion, after all.”

Peth gave her an uncertain look, clearly unsure if she was supposed to smile and laugh politely or not.

“Ma’am?” the girl eventually hazarded, clearly unwilling to give up the idea of addressing Kha’vir with something that was not her name. Kha’vir supposed she could live with ma’am, so she made no further comments.

“As for your question—because he has grey eyes,” she said.

Peth frowned, though only for a moment. Her expression changed to the studied neutrality of someone who knew any display of displeasure towards those higher in the food chain would be met with harsh punishment. “But he is Shen,” she said. “A Force Hound. We don’t have names.”

“It’s more accurate to say he used to be a Force Hound,” Kha’vir pointed out. “And surely your parents gave you a name.”

“Of course they did,” Peth said. “But it was taken away when I was given up. I can’t exactly start using it again—it’s no longer mine.”

Kha’vir had to admit there was a certain logic to that. If your name was given to you, then it stood to reason that it could be taken away. Of course, there was a simple enough solution, as far as she could tell. “Iron-Eyes is what Amaya called him. But we’d call him anything he picked. If you’d like to pick a name, there’s nothing stopping you.”

“I… guess?” Peth said doubtfully.

“You don’t have to do it, if it makes you uncomfortable,” Kha’vir added. “It’s your choice that matters.”

Peth fell silent then, mulling over something. Then, tentatively, she asked, “So… I could ask you to call me Enea? I always liked Enea.”

“You could,” Kha’vir said.

“What about Enea Dorina Sierra?” Peth continued.

“I’ve never heard of there being a limit of names one can have,” Kha’vir said. “Though perhaps don’t expect people to call you all of them at once.”

 

* * *

 

Kha’vir didn’t seem to be meditating, Amaya noticed after a moment. Instead, the other woman was watching a point on the wall without really seeing it.

“What’s bothering you?” she asked.

“The girl,” Kha’vir answered. “Does she listen to me because what I say is convincing, or because I am rakata and she was taught that we must be respected?”

“What do you think?” Amaya asked. She wasn’t sure if she had an answer for this question. Peth was definitely capable of thinking on her own, but equally she seemed to be almost afraid of taking any steps towards self-reliance.

“I don’t know,” Kha’vir said. “They’re both so timid—Simurgh was nothing like them.”

“Or perhaps, she acted differently around you because to her you were a child, and to them, you’re an authority figure?” Amaya pointed out. She decided not to argue that Peth wasn’t exactly _timid_ or that Iron-Eyes was starting to show signs that he might be able to stand up for himself at some point. It wasn’t the point.

Kha’vir shook her head. “Simurgh knew she was more than a trained attack dog. If not for the binding, she’d have killed my father long ago.” She snorted. “He found it amusing. I never cease to be amazed at how idiotic he could be.” Then she sighed. “But this is neither here nor there. I don't know if I will help or hurt by giving advice to the girl.”

“If she comes to you, don’t send her away,” Amaya said after a moment. “Answer her questions—and then ask her to talk with me about them. That way, we can make sure that she will think about what you’re saying, rather than just blindly accepting it.”

Kha’vir nodded. “It’s strange—I was told I’m powerless, but I’ve power over others simply because of what I am. And complicated too.” She hesitated. “It’s not that I ever believed I’m powerless, but some things stick with you. Like you expect people not to listen to you, and all of a sudden you have a wounded child turning to you for direction and wisdom.”

“You will have to do your best and hope it’s enough,” Amaya said. “That’s apparently all that there is to being an adult.”

“I thought there’s also pretending you know what you’re doing?” Kha’vir replied, her tone taking on a familiar dryness.

“Are you admitting you sometimes don’t know what you’re doing?” Amaya asked, amused.

“Of course not,” Kha’vir replied with exaggerated dignity. “I’m merely repeating what I heard from others, less adept at being adults.”

 

* * *

 

“Who’s that?” Iron-Eyes asked, looking at the holo. It was bound to happen sooner or later; Amaya had known that for some time. It wasn’t like she was keeping it hidden from everyone.

“My mother and my brother,” she replied. “She’s here too, just in a different section of the tunnels. He’s… missing.”

Iron-Eyes frowned. “You mean he was taken away.”

“I don’t know for sure,” Amaya replied. “I was badly wounded—he might be dead.”

Iron-Eyes looked at the holo in silence for a moment, then said, “If he’s like you, he’s probably alive.”

“He was five when the invasion happened,” Amaya said softly. “It’s hard to say what he’d be like, if he’d grown up with us… I can’t really imagine what he is now, if he’s alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Iron-Eyes said. He hesitated then, and glanced at the door, clearly uncomfortable. But he stayed and added, “If someone like Peth could run away, so could he.”

“It’s OK, you don’t have to cheer me up,” she said. “It’s been years. I’ve learned to live with the uncertainty.”

“Sorry,” Iron-Eyes said quickly then. “I- You don’t need me telling you things you know.”

“It’s not that,” Amaya replied. “It’s that we have more pressing things to worry about. I know I can’t find him, and that I’m needed here now, rather than risking getting caught to run all over the Infinite Empire.” She sighed and looked at the holo. “I hope he’d understand.”

In moments like these, she couldn’t help but imagine telling Tamid the same. And it didn’t really matter that she knew he’d be an adult by now—she saw the little boy who’d not understand at all why his big sister wasn’t there to save him. In a way, it would have been easier to bear if she’d known he was dead, or even if she’d just known that he really did resent her for not finding a way to help him.

But that was not the situation she was given, and all she could do was accept it as it was. And then, try to do her best and hope that it’d be enough.

“I think he knows that you’d save him if you could,” Iron-Eyes said quietly. “He’ll understand.”


	16. Where There's Always More Cleaning to Do

For someone with a mysterious illness that was keeping them confined to one room, Illai had been very energetic. Then again, Cal thought there was something desperate about it, as if the Dictator believed that pacing restlessly would stave off whatever was plaguing him. When the doctor wasn’t looking, Illai would stop pacing and stand with his limbs trembling slightly and his eyestalks drooping.

Cal didn’t know if it was the poison he’d been sneaking into the medicine for a week now, or if it was the illness progressing. Not for sure.

The doctor seemed puzzled by the symptoms, though, which boded well.

“Lonely boy running through the stars,” Illai said suddenly, looking at nothing in particular with wide eyes. “On the wings of a falcon, escaping hungry maws and tentacles alike.”

Cal continued preparing the medicine, while the doctor flinched. To be fair, the rambling was new, though Cal found it mostly just weird. It wasn’t like it made any sense.

“Little by little, the shape becomes pure, though few will see,”  Illai continued. “And the girl. Child leader, one torch among many, he will make sure she’s not extinguished.”

Maybe he was doing this on purpose to unnerve the doctor? Cal wouldn’t put it past Illai. He might have resented the doctor for being healthy, and in a fit of pettiness decided to spout some creepy nonsense. Vague as it was, if one wanted to search for meaning in it, then one would likely find _some_.

Or Illai’s mind was simply going, and he was just babbling.

“Drink your medicine, my lord,” the doctor said, motioning for Cal to come closer. “It will make you feel better.”

The Dictator took the glass from Cal’s hands and drank. When he put it down, his hand was trembling again.

 

* * *

 

Cal had been aware that cleaning was endless—really, it was something you found out as soon as you learned to do the dishes, but the palace was still something else. It was like a limitless plane stuffed with things the only purpose of which was to get dirty. One triumphant depiction of Illai trampling others would really get the message across—there was no need for there to be so many.

Qi’ra was fuming silently next to him, as they cleaned tiny marble arms and legs.

“You’re far too cheerful about this,” she said eventually. “It’s creepy and unnatural.”

“Good to know I’m cheerful,” Cal replied dryly. “I was under the impression my cheer got strangled by the dust.”

Qi’ra snorted—a brief almost involuntary laugh—before stifling it and scoffing. “That’s what I’m talking about. You joke about everything.”

“It’s better than crying or snapping at everyone until they have to force the new guy to work with you, because he’s the only one without favours to pull,” Cal replied. She turned to face him then, surprise melting to anger in an instant. It seemed like it was her default—any strong emotion would eventually melt into anger, as if she couldn’t deal with anything else.

“I don’t want your pity,” she snarled, as she viciously tried to dig out some dust from a crevice.

“For me to pity you, it would imply our positions are meaningfully different,” Cal replied. True, they _were_ , but she didn’t know it. And he needed all the assets he could find, and that anger of hers would be a useful one, if she could direct it rather than lash out at everyone save for those who were truly responsible for her situation.

She pursed her lips so tightly they turned white, and then breathed out. “You’re… right,” she said, and he could still hear the anger in her voice, but she was at least trying. “I hate this. I hate cleaning.”

“Who likes it?” Cal asked. He’d heard of people who did, sure, but he’d yet to meet one of those mythical creatures. “It’s tedious, and it never ends. And you know… this thing was clearly made to be difficult to clean.”

“What can you do?” Qi’ra answered. “It’s not like being easy to clean was ever a priority with art.”

“Not much,” Cal replied. He peered at the mass of hands being trampled on and huffed. “And it’s still dusty.”

“OK, now I believe your good cheer got strangled by the dust,” Qi’ra said with a brief chuckle.

 

* * *

 

No one had told her that being free involved cleaning her room. She’d never considered it before, not having a room to clean or possessions to clutter it with, but now Enea found herself learning that terrorists in underground sewers didn’t have slaves who’d keep their rooms uncluttered and clean.

She’d tried asking Shen how he was dealing with that, but that just got her a venomous glare so she retreated. It was best not to provoke him. Besides, maybe he struggled with that too and didn’t want to admit a weakness?

So, she left him alone and decided to go to someone who’d been free their whole life and hadn’t lived in a palace.

“I’ll write a checklist for you,” Amaya said after listening to Enea’s complaints. It wasn’t exactly what she’d wanted to hear, but she supposed it was best not to push her luck and ask if there maybe was a way to just have someone do it for her.

“It’s rather boring, though,” she said instead. “Do you… I don’t know… make it more interesting somehow?”

“I meditate,” Amaya replied with a small shrug.

Lady Kha’vir had explained meditating to Enea, and it sounded rather dreadful. Still, if it made cleaning less of a bother, she’d try. It really couldn’t be worse than going through a whole room and turning around, and finding you’d missed a spot, or finding that all of your new clothes had become a tangled pile of fabric.

"So, how do I do that?" she asked. “I mean la- Kha’vir explained some of it, but I don’t think it’s going to work for me.”

“It takes practice,” Amaya answered. “Just like anything else. Start with the checklist, though. Then, once you’re used to keeping your own room clean, we can move on to doing two things at a time.”

 

* * *

 

Once Peth had left, Amaya had a moment to herself. She’d been using such moments to make herself more familiar with her new weapon. By now, she’d learned of the imperfections in its design—Iron-Eyes had told her how it could overheat, and once or twice she’d noticed the handle starting to grow warmer than it should.

But despite that, the weapon felt more and more like a friend. She could feel the crystal powering it in the Force, and each time she used it, it grew more familiar to her—as she did to it.

And it seemed to resonate with her emotions— taking in all of them, good and bad alike. She tried to be careful and handle it with a calm mind, because of that. In the end, it was alive, after a fashion, and that meant it could be harmed.

There were other differences between the lightsaber and other blades—compared to them, it was very light. In fact, the more Amaya grew accustomed to it, the lighter it appeared. That didn’t mean that she could use it well—she’d not been trained in swordplay and was under no impression she could outfight a Force Hound in a fair fight.

But that didn’t mean the lightsaber wouldn’t be useful.

So, she stood in the middle of her room, the lightsaber humming softly once activated, and started a series of parries and strikes that Iron-Eyes had shown her. He'd refused to spar with her point blank, claiming that he didn’t know how to fight without harming the other person, and Amaya had decided not to push him.

She’d find another way to compensate.

The motions were coming easier and easier to her, becoming more instinctive and less conscious with every time she practiced them.

Perhaps her gift of seeing weak points would help here? She couldn’t say for sure if she’d be quick enough, but at least in theory should be able to see the flaws in her opponent’s way of fighting.

If only she had a sparring partner…

 

* * *

 

Berezi had walked swiftly to get Amaya and pushed the door open without knocking. Not the smartest or the most polite thing of him to do, given that he was simply meant to relay information, but his mind had turned to the helpless child in danger, and that had apparently made him forget himself.

He’d been greeted by the sight of Amaya whirling to face him, green blade extended before her menacingly and now utterly still.

“Careful,” Berezi said somewhat testily. Perhaps he was over-reacting a bit—the glowing green blade wasn’t that close to his face, but that didn't make him feel any safer.

“That is why you knock,” Amaya said, turning off the ‘saber. She measured him sternly, like a schoolmarm sizing up an unruly child, and Berezi started feeling uneasy. “You’re standing here and complaining, so it’s obviously not a life and death situation. What is your excuse?”

That was a valid point, and Berezi ducked his head. “Sorry. That was rude of me.”

“So, what was it that prompted you to forget manners?” Amaya asked, her tone growing a bit less pointed. And just like that the sense of urgency that had him barging unannounced into her room was back.

“We’ve news of a Force sensitive child,” Berezi replied. Amaya grew tense almost instantly. It was not the first time they’d had news like this—except, several times they’d found out too late to be of any help. No doubt, she was thinking about those times. “And if we know, then the Empire will find out about her soon.”

“How old is she?” Amaya asked, as she clipped the ‘saber to her belt. It looked like she was ready to march out there and then—though he knew she wouldn’t. She’d want to know more and to prepare, even if at the same time, they all knew time was ticking by.

But unprepared, they’d end up causing more harm than good.

“Just turned two,” Berezi replied. He had to suppress a shudder at the thought of a child so small being at the mercy of the Infinite Empire. “You will need to escort her and her parents to a safe spot. Alia decided that Lupe and I will be staying behind.”

Amaya frowned and tapped her foot. “I suppose with Peth around it's best if someone is there to keep her and Iron-Eyes occupied. It doesn’t seem like they will be getting along any time soon.”

Berezi nodded. There was no denying the tension between the two. It was for the best that so far, the girl had been avoiding Iron-Eyes as much as he was avoiding her. But he hadn't come to discuss the problems of the former Force Hounds. “Anyway, I’m here to give you a briefing—Alia has to meet up with someone.” He paused. “The family lives in a village. It’s about a six hour ride from Coronet City.”

“And I will only be able to ride once I’m out of the city,” Amaya guessed. Then, she smiled at him wryly. “So, it’s tunnel camping for me, isn’t it?”


	17. Where We Learn About Subversive Embroidery

As Cal passed by two rakatan officers, he caught a bit of their conversation, so he quickly found a table in need of polishing.

“The Dictator is dying,” the taller one with blue-green skin hissed, barely keeping the glee out of his voice.

The other one with brick-red skin glanced around, his eyes sliding over Cal the same way they passed over furniture, before replying. “Are you certain? Or is it just a rumour?”

“Quite certain,” the first one said. “His doctor told his wife that Illai is bed-ridden.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s going to die soon,” the second answered, irritation almost palpable. “My mother spent the last four years of her life in bed, and only expired when my sister stabbed her.”

“Your mother was also missing her legs,” the first one replied dryly. “Stop being obnoxious, and listen.”

That in turn made the second rakata sigh heavily. “Oh do go on, if you must. But give me facts.”

“Well, he’s bed-ridden. What else do you need to know to start acting?” the first one snapped.

“That this is not some trick,” the second one replied waspishly. “Illai is cunning. This could all be a test.”

That made the first rakata snort. “No one would arrange a test this complex. It’s too expensive, time-consuming and tedious.”

The second one stayed silent for a moment, while Cal studiously polished a table in slow certain strokes. He didn’t want to catch their attention, after all, and that meant acting like he was meant to be exactly where he was and doing something appropriately slave-like.

“You do have a point,” the second one finally said. “Let’s talk it over somewhere more private.”

They walked away then, chatting about more neutral subjects, as Cal continued cleaning. The rakata were starting to get antsy—and that seemed to translate into plotting. And that would be useful for him, since suspicion would fall first on the ambitious courtiers before anyone would think to blame a slave.

 

* * *

 

The tension was as thick with the slaves as it was among the courtiers, though it was expressed differently. There was more worrying about what the future might hold, and less plotting, for one. Not that Illai had been a guarantee of a long, peaceful life, but despite his recent unpredictability, for some, he still counted as a known quantity.

Cal found it somewhat perplexing, but then, a lot of things about the Infinite Empire seemed to be perplexing to him. Like how they'd go to amazing lengths to not question the system that had made them slaves—in fact, some of them looked forward to possible freedom because they might have slaves of their own.

And then, there was Rhys, who was a different sort of odd.

“I want to teach the two of you something,” he had told them, as he placed fabric, thread, and needles in front of Cal and Qi’ra. “You two are sensible children, and since I’m not going to have any of my own, I thought I'd pass down what I learned from my mother..”

“Sewing?” Qi’ra asked, eyeing the pile uncertainly. “I can already sew.”

“Embroidering,” Rhys explained. “And its language.”

Cal arched his eyebrows as he considered that. Slaves who belonged to higher-ranking rakata tended to wear decorative clothes—a way of showing their master’s status. It stood to reason that someone had to embroider those, and a skill like that would make a slave more valuable.

“Aren’t you blind?” Qi’ra asked bluntly.

“Only mostly,” Rhys replies. “I can still see shapes well enough if they’re close to my face.”

“Let’s get started?” Cal said picking a piece of fabric at random. The weave was rather loose on it, with visible gaps between the warp and weft, and it was in a neutral pale beige. He supposed it was so boring so that the embroidery would stand out better against it.

Qi’ra gave him a suspicious look, before picking up a piece of grey fabric. “Yeah, let’s.”

Rhys smiled. “Very well. Let’s start with the alphabet you will be using.”

Cal didn’t look at him sharply only because he’d trained himself to control his immediate reactions. An alphabet implied they’d be learning actual writing, and not just the meanings of colours. There was clearly more to this lesson than he’d thought there’d be.

 

* * *

 

The tunnels spread out much further than Coronet City: some of them ended in natural caves, while others led to the surface. Some of them even led to smaller settlements, though unfortunately none led to the village where the family Amaya would be extracting lived.

When she emerged from the tunnels, it was in a small clearing in a forest. There were remnants of a house surrounding it, though the vegetation was doing its best to erase its existence altogether. Thick framble bushes had already coiled around one sad remnant of a wall, the glossy purple fruit permeating the air with a sweet smell. The pitiful bones of the creatures that learned too late that it was poisonous were barely visible in the thicket.

Amaya stepped over the crumbled wall on the other side, where some of the once-white plasterwork clung in patches to the red bricks. She had to meander between tall trees and creeping bushes until she reached a dirt road—and her transport. A beaten-up speeder, the type a farmer might own, was hidden in the bushes, under a tarp.

When she pulled the tarp away and brushed her hand against the hood, she felt that it was still warm. Whoever had left it here had done it not long ago.

She continued inspecting the speeder a while longer to make sure it was safe, before finally starting it. Despite its beaten-up appearance, it came to life promptly, the engine working almost soundlessly. The gauge indicated that the fuel was almost full, too, and there was enough space for several more passengers and their belongings.

Amaya maneuvered it around until she could speed towards the village.

 

* * *

 

The farm looked nice enough—there was a small garden in front of the house with flowers in bloom, and a yard with a bulky harvester parked at the side. A white hound sprawled itself in the sun, turning the side of its head to watch her with one eye. A tooka was napping on its back, its spotted brown fur standing out against the hound’s skin.

A handsome woman around Amaya’s age with dark skin and a thick mane of dreadlocks walked out of the house and marched energetically toward the gate to let Amaya in. She didn’t say so much as a word, until they entered the cool interior—Amaya noted the floral patterns painted lovingly on the walls in bright colours and the smell of herbs and spices in the air.

“I’m Kamaria,” the woman said and then indicated a bald man with a bushy beard and blue-black skin, “and this is Jengo.” She then indicated a chair. “Please sit down. Eshe is asleep, so we can talk in peace for the moment.”

“Are you here to help us protect our child?” Jengo asked, turning to look at Amaya. His head had been tattooed with a white geometric pattern.

“Yes,” Amaya said. “Take your things. We’re leaving as soon as you’ve put everything in the speeder.”

That, clearly, was not the answer they were expecting. Kamaria's eyes went wide, and Jengo frowned.

“So soon?” the woman asked, as she took Jengo’s hand. Their fingers laced together, and Amaya could see now that Jengo’s tattoos were mirrored on Kamaria’s hands.

“I know it’s a short notice,” Amaya said gently. “But the faster we move, the less likely it is that someone blabs. Maybe someone notices your child levitating a block, or maybe someone decides they don't like the explanation you give them about me—it’s not like I can pass for a family member for either of you.”

Jengo bit his lip. “We need to tell my mother. She’ll worry.”

Amaya shook her head emphatically. “I’m sorry, but you can’t. You need to understand that the less anyone knows, the better.” She saw that Jengo wanted to protest, so she added quickly, “I’m not saying anyone would knowingly betray you—but they might let something slip accidentally.”

Jengo and Kamaria didn’t look too convinced, but Amaya was not out of arguments yet. “If anyone starts asking, they will be able to honestly say they don't know what happened to you. You’re ensuring their safety this way too.”

“Someone will start looking for us,” Kamaria protested.

“That can happen, but it’s equally possible if you do tell someone you're leaving,” Amaya replied.

“They will worry,” Kamaria continued. “Can’t we at least leave a letter?”

“Someone could bring the letter to the rakata,” Amaya replied. She could tell she needed to give them _something_ if she wanted them to leave, though. “We can send one of our people to inform someone that you’re safe, once you’re in hiding.”

“I suppose we’ve no choice,” Kamaria said eventually.

Jengo wasn’t about to give up yet, though. Instead, he said, “Can you check if Eshe really is Force sensitive first?”

The rest remained unsaid, but Amaya could hear it—if the child wasn’t Force sensitive, they could stay and live their lives. Except, that wasn’t true. “You didn’t contact us for no reason. Even if your child isn’t Force sensitive, she has done something out of ordinary. That will draw attention—the rakata can still take her from you and raise her as a slave.

“You can’t go back now that you’ve contacted us,” she added.

Jengo’s shoulders slumped somewhat in defeat.

“I’m sorry,” Amaya replied. “I wish you could stay here with your friends and family, but there’s no other way for us to protect you and your child.”

“We’ll pack,” Jengo said in a subdued voice.

 

* * *

 

Peth decided she found Kha’vir the most puzzling out of everyone she’d met so far. Shen, she supposed, she could sort of understand. His master had been… difficult, so it made sense that he’d be glad to escape him. The Corellians had only recently come under the rule of the rakata, and it seemed that perhaps they didn't really need as much guidance as Coruscanti humans, which Dictator Illai didn’t seem to notice.

But Kha’vir was a lady. Had she listened to her father, she could have lived in comfort. And yet, she threw that all away, in favour of living in the tunnels and helping humans fight her own people.

Peth just couldn’t understand it. There had to be more behind Kha’vir’s decision, but no matter how hard she tried she just couldn’t see her angle.

“My father, personally, cut off my eye,” Kha’vir said, when Peth had finally decided to ask. “And before that, I was considered faulty for saying that I want to decide for myself, instead of being treated like someone incapable of making their own choices.”

When put like that, it did sound rather unfair. But then, most rakatan women didn’t seem to mind—in fact, a lot of them played politics along with their husbands or against them. They just had to pretend to agree.

“Well, yes,” she said, “but in return, you get to have nice things and slaves.”

“That is not a very strong argument if I object to owning slaves, or having ‘nice things’ at the cost of others,” Kha’vir replied. “It’d also require me to care so much about myself that I wouldn’t care that the current system is harming everyone.”

“It’s not,” Peth replied. “I mean—sure, some people get hurt because their master is a dick, but then you just need to kill the master. Or some people get hurt because their father is awful, but then you kill the father. There’s lots of people who benefit—I mean, slaves don’t have to worry about food and housing, and the empire makes sure people do what they’re good at—and you just can’t trust some people with running their own planets.”

Kha’vir looked at her for a while, then motioned for her to sit down. “Let’s examine all of those arguments one at a time, shall we?”

Peth nodded. That seemed quite reasonable. And maybe even a bit flattering—that she was being treated like an equal in a discussion with her own arguments that bore examining.

“Our current system removes Force sensitive children from their families violently, and the majority of them die,” Kha’vir said. “It has nothing to do with a specific master. All those in power accept this, instead of looking for a better source of fuel for our ships.”

Peth clenched her hands into fists tightly. That was… that was _unfair_. She didn’t want to be reminded of that.

“I’m sorry,” Kha’vir said. “That… must have hit closer to home for you than I intended. We can have this conversation at another time.”  

She expected Peth to give up now, and that was not going to happen. She’d get to the true reason why Kha’vir was helping the humans.

“No, I’m fine,” she said, her voice slightly higher than she’d have wanted. “And- and it’s not possible—I mean using a different type of power. If it were, someone would have come up with it.”

“There are theories,” Kha’vir replied. “No one in power ever let them be tested.”

Peth frowned. There had to be a reason for that. It couldn’t be that her family gave her away to _suffer_. It had been an honour. That she could have been replaced by something dead…

“It doesn’t mean they’re better,” she finally said. “I mean- I mean, are you telling me that my family gave me away because no one can be bothered to update obsolete technology? That I suffered because someone didn’t care enough? That can’t be true! We’d have- We’d have fought, if things were really that terrible _everywhere_.”

Kha’vir looked at her, her expression surprisingly soft. “Does it matter if you suffer for cause you’ve not chosen, but was thrust upon you, or if you’re suffering without a reason at all?”

“I don’t know!” Peth snapped. “You’re the adult. You’re the- the one with the answers. Why are you asking me?”

“Because I can tell you what I believe, but it’s up to you to decide what you believe in,” Kha’vir replied.

“I just want to know why you’re here,” Peth said. “Daughters kill fathers all the time. Just that most of them don't defect to the enemies of the empire.”

“I am here, because the Infinite Empire needs to burn,” Kha’vir replied. “I am here, because I can’t save all those who I wish to save or wished to save, but I can avenge them. Because I want to make sure that no one else is mutilated for making a choice for themselves. A choice that doesn’t harm _anyone_.”

Peth stared at her. That… That sounded terrifying. Sure, things could be unpleasant at times, but there was order and stability. If Kha’vir had her way, all of that would be gone.

“And once the empire is no more,” she said, “what then? People will fight. Trans-galactic transport of goods will be gone. All systems will suffer.”

“Those systems governed themselves before we conquered them,” Kha’vir answered. “They can do so again. And like I said, there are untested theories on how to power hyperdrives that will not cause so much suffering. Who said all of those are rakatan?”


	18. Where Cal Finds Out More about Rakatan Interior Decorating

It turned out that Illai’s rooms were a lot more interesting, once one knew that some slaves embroidered messages for one another. Signs for danger were decorating the curtains, warning both about Illai and his Force Hound.

The last part struck Cal as a bit strange—why warn about Iron-Eyes specifically? It wasn’t like he’d have any particular reason to attack slaves. Still, it was probably something that he could safely be curious about, so he decided to ask Rhys later.

Illai had not left his bed for a week now, and the doctor had to add seizure medicine to the list of medications that Dictator was receiving. He looked almost pitiful now—thinner than the rakatan norm, his eyes unfocused and staring dully at the ceiling. But as sorry as he _looked_ , he was still the creature who’d personally sentenced many others to death and suffering.

And sometimes, he’d still get as close to lucidity as someone whose nervous system was being destroyed could, and his instinct seemed to still be towards cruelty. He’d demand the heads of his family or subordinates, the hearts of long dead enemies to feast on…

Then there were days like this particular day, when he’d recite bad poetry about liver cake.

“Oh, the delight,” Illai said, somewhat unintelligibly.

The doctor appeared to be unmoved, likely because by now he had little to fear from Illai. The Dictator hardly seemed to remember his own name, let alone what he’d ordered, so there was almost no way anyone would find out if any of the orders relayed by the doctor were genuine.

Not that it wasn’t common knowledge that Illai was no longer in a state to give any orders, but it had never been publicly stated. Soon enough, someone would challenge this, and once that happened the house of cards that was the power structure would come tumbling down.

Eventually, the doctor motioned for Cal to follow him out of the rooms to meet with Illai’s First Wife. One of Cal’s duties had been carrying the doctor’s bag and bringing it to his room, but he could only do it in the doctor’s presence.

She received them in her boudoir, accompanied by several ladies-in-waiting and a cadre of slaves attending to them. The rakatan ladies appeared to be playing some sort of board game, which required both cards and figurines to play with. Instead of using a holographic board they were using a hand-made one with a painted background, while the figurines had been carved from some sort of bone.

It also was quite apparent that the First Wife was extremely fond of floral patterns. There were flowers painted on the wallpaper—the kind that eats little animals, to be precise—and on the carved on the furniture. Some of them were depicted in the act of digesting insects or little mammals.

“How is my husband?” the First Wife asked. “Is he getting better?”

Cal could tell that everyone knew she didn’t want to hear a yes, but they all also knew she couldn’t say so outright. She had to maintain the charade.

“As I told you when you first summoned me, my lady,” the doctor replied, “our lord’s illness is terminal. He will not get better. I regret to inform you that it seems the disease is progressing at the most rapid pace I’d have predicted.”

“It pains me greatly to hear this,” the First Wife replied, showing the amount of pain Cal would associate with eating a very tasty cake. “How long does my husband have left?”

“A few weeks, I’m afraid,” the doctor answered, sounding as fearful as a tooka confronting an arthritic pelly-mouse.

“Thank you, doctor,” the First Wife replied. “It’d pain me even more, if he were to die before his beloved son reaches adulthood. I’m relieved he will last longer than that. That would be all.”

 

* * *

 

Rhys seemed to be pleased that Cal had grasped the secret alphabet so quickly. He certainly didn’t appear to mind answering questions about the warnings in Illai’s quarters, especially since Cal took over washing yet another questionable work of art.

“Right, the little bastard ran away before you could ever see him,” Rhys said. “Well, I don’t really know if he’s illegitimate, but anyway—the warning was there partially because he looked unassuming. Thin, scrawny male human with those funny dots on his skin some of you have—what are they called? Freckles?”

He said the last word in Basic, so Cal nodded.

“You said ‘partially’,” he said, “so there’s more to it than him not looking like much of a threat.”

“Whenever he was fighting, there’d be collateral damage,” Rhys explained, the words collateral damage coming out bitter. “And I don’t mean in the sense that someone got caught in the crossfire or was accidentally hit by a ‘saber. I mean that he’d grab you and use you as a meat-shield if you were close by, or push you into whoever he was fighting to distract them—most Force Hounds would at least consider furniture first. He just didn’t see a difference.”

That didn’t sound very much like Iron-Eyes, but then, Cal had to admit he’d never seen him fight. He still let his shock show on his face—both because Rhys wouldn’t see it very well and because it’d be the expected reaction.

“And the Dictator wasn’t worried he’d accidentally grab him one day and use him as a meat-shield?” he finally asked.

Rhys chuckled. “Apparently not.”

 

* * *

 

It was as Amaya was helping Jengo to load up the final bag into the speeder that a little old lady approached them. She had skin as dark as Jengo, and her hair was in many small silver braids.

“Did something happen, dear?” she asked. Amaya could sense her concern, though fortunately the woman didn’t seem to be alarmed yet.

“No, nothing, auntie,” Jengo replied. “We’re taking a little trip with Kamaria’s friend. She was gracious enough to offer to host us for a while.”

The woman looked at Amaya for a while, before nodding to herself. “Well, enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you, auntie,” Jengo said. The woman walked away then, her pace slow and measured. Amaya motioned at the man to get into the speeder, before sitting down before the controls herself. It was only once they were speeding away that Jengo asked her the question he’d clearly been wanting to ask ever since the conversation.

“Why didn’t we leave in the night, when no one would see us?” he asked.

“Because it’d be more suspicious,” Amaya replied. “And you gave her a perfectly reasonable explanation—it’s not like you’d normally tell all our plans to a nosy neighbor, would you?”

Jengo ran his hands over his face, as he breathed out.

“It’s hard for us,” Kamaria said. “We’re leaving our life behind.” Amaya sensed a flare of warmth—Kamaria was probably looking at Eshe now. A moment later she sensed the little girl’s happiness. She was definitely Force sensitive, a bright spark ready to become so much more. “It’s not regret, but… it’s still hard.”

“I understand,” Amaya replied gently.

She remembered what it was like to live in the city, what it was like to have friends she’d meet after school, how it was like to have duties that were not about life and death—even if that life had been taken from her, she could imagine how it’d have been if the rakata had never come.

“It will become easier,” she said. “And you have a purpose.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they reached Janan’s safehouse where she taught Sair and Tal, it was late in the night. Eshe was fast asleep in Kamaria’s arms, and both she and Jengo were exhausted. Amaya was quite tired herself, and silently glad that she’d have a moment to rest soon.

But she didn’t fail to notice that when her mother emerged, she was flanked by a tall, burly man and an equally massive woman. They made Janan look smaller, but nevertheless Amaya could tell her mother looked healthier than the last time she’d seen her. There was a kind of serenity about her that came from having made a choice.

And there were two packed backpacks near one of the doors.

“Ander and Ane will escort you two from here on,” Janan said. “You can leave tomorrow. Sair and Tal—my students—will join you. I will leave with Amaya.”

Amaya sensed no threat, but she wondered what had happened in her absence.

“Let me show you to your room for tonight,” Janan added, motioning for Kamaria and Jengo to follow. They saw did so a moment later, and disappeared behind one of the doors. For a moment, Amaya could feel their relief at being finally able to rest.

Then, she gave her mother a quizzical look.

“Alia asked me to be ready,” Janan replied. “She’s planning something, isn’t she?”

Amaya thought of Cal and his mission, and nodded. It seemed that some news had gotten out of the palace, while she was gone. What kind of news it was, she’d likely find out later.

“Yes,” she said. “She’ll give you the details once we’re there, most likely.”

Janan nodded. “I think I can guess what it is.”

But she said nothing more.

 

* * *

 

They all left the next day, the safehouse becoming just another abandoned space in the tunnels like plenty others. Soon enough, it’d be dust-covered and decrepit or a den of more razor hounds. It was another layer of security—the illusion that the many living-spaces had been used once, in the past, but that they’d been completely forgotten when Corellia became a human world.

But it was the implication of this that occupied Janan, though it didn’t worry her. She’d found that lately, she felt a sense of expectation filling her, as if the Force was whispering a secret just at the edge of her hearing.

Something was going to happen—something important, and whatever it was, Janan knew she’d be a part of it.

She could guess what it might be: they’d make their move. It would be more than a short raid or sneaking a scientist, an engineer or a Force sensitive child away. An uprising.

And though she didn’t know if she’d live, she knew that Corellia would stand. When she glanced at Amaya, she knew that she’d be fine.

“Did Alia tell you about the other Force Hound?” Amaya asked.

Janan nodded. “The girl who ran away, once her master was dead. Yes, I’ve heard.”

She paused, examining her feelings about it, and as always when she thought of the Force Hound, she’d found herself thinking of Tamid. Her child, for whom she hadn’t been there when he needed her most. But now—now she was ready to admit this was not the fault of Kha’vir or any of the two Hounds.

No one had specifically targeted her or Amaya, or Tamid. No one had cared about them in particular. They had been numbers, losses and gains in a war.

It still hurt. But she thought she could live with this pain.

“You don’t have to worry about them,” Janan said. “I won’t tell them that they’re fundamentally broken and irredeemable.”

“I never said you would,” Amaya replied.

“I won’t imply it either,” Janan added. “No, you were right to worry. The last time we spoke… I’d gone into a dark place and never noticed.”

“And what about Tamid?” Amaya asked.

Janan hesitated. Just the mere thought brought tears to her eyes. What had happened to her son, if he was still alive? Thinking that there’d be nothing left of the little boy she’d raised had been easier, but she found that this certainty was gone.

“I don’t know,” she said softly, and let silence fall between them. 


	19. Where Cal Blows up an Oven for Freedom

Illai had expired in the night, two weeks before his eldest surviving son’s birthday. His mother was a mere legate’s daughter—raised to her position by virtue of being married to Illai back when he’d been a predor. Though she had forged alliances, her family didn’t have enough political clout to back her and her child.

Still, she’d been canny enough to keep herself and her son alive. The same could not be said for two for two of Illai’s predors, who’d lost their lives recently—one just before Illai’s death, the other shortly after.

No doubt more would follow, until finally one ruler was standing on top. Or at least so the rakata thought.

Cal had other expectations. Of course, he’d no way of knowing what Alia and the other leaders had planned, but he had suspicions. The state funeral would be organized in a few days, and given who’d be in attendance, it’d be an ideal opportunity to strike.

But this was not yet his concern. For now, his concern was extracting himself with minimal fuss. And that was about to get more complicated.

“I know who you are,” Rhys said placidly. He held up his hands. “No, don’t panic. Think of what I’ve shown you.”

“So you’ve known for a while,” Cal said. “How?”

“You learned the alphabet very quickly, came here from the market acting like a perfect slave, like that ever happens on planets like yours, and certain things took on a more expedient course,” Rhys said. “You’re good, don’t get me wrong, but if you live as long as I do, you learn which way the wind is blowing.”

“And it’s blowing you out of the palace, isn’t it?” Cal asked.

The old slave shrugged. “There’s no sense in sticking around, is there?”

“And now it’s your turn to tell me what you’ve brought to the table,” Cal countered. “That’s part of the script, isn’t it?”

He made sure to keep his voice light as he evaluated the situation. The old slave could be useful. After all, someone like him was virtually invisible to those in power, and so made a perfect spy. Even taking into account that he wanted to run now, he’d still have secrets to tell.

But something, some instinct, told Cal that there was more to it.

“It is,” Rhys conceded, “and what I can give you is this: I know a lot of people. I know which of them will share information with you, which will betray you. I know them not only on Corellia, but outside of the system.”

“I think we might need a slightly more ambitious plan,” Cal said, as something occurred to him.

 

* * *

 

If anyone would have asked Qi’ra if she’d be angry if it turned out Jaris was someone completely different, and wasn’t even named Jaris, she’d have said yes. Funny how things changed so easily. Instead of the familiar anger, she felt a kind of savage joy at knowing that her masters had been fooled.

She hadn’t even thought about the consequences, when Rhys had explained the plan to her and several other slaves. She’d simply said yes.

To be fair, the thought of consequences wasn’t making her feel any less inclined to go through with it. The worst had already happened, when she found out that she’d sold herself for nothing—her sister had been returned to her husband with the money Qi’ra had given her to start a new life just a few days later, and now she didn’t even have an older sister to help her.

With an angry growl, she started doing an inventory of cleaning supplies. There was some angry reshuffling of various bottles and boxes too. And all the while, she’d check the ingredient lists, taking note of certain chemical components and warnings.

It’d be such a shame if someone weren’t careful about them. For example, a permanently angry slave with a grudge against all of existence.

It was almost surreal how many dangerous things she handled every day. No one seemed to care that slaves in the kitchens had knives, or that slaves cleaned with various chemicals that when mixed together could make a poisonous gas, or acid or any number of things. And all of that was printed neatly on their boxes and bottles, for all to see.

Qi’ra took one final look at her handiwork, and then stepped outside quickly with a box in her hands. She quickly shut the door with a crash and marched away.

 

* * *

 

Cal had learned how to make a bomb out of an oven several years ago, though he’d had limited opportunities to use this skill. For one, the kitchens he had access to usually belonged to people who weren’t his enemies and really didn’t deserve to be blown up. Admittedly, the same could be said about some of the kitchen staff in the palace, but Cal had on good authority that the head cook and his assistants were all slave drivers not just literally but figuratively.

It had been easy enough to pretend one of the ovens had broken down, and pretend he’d been checking what was wrong. And then, all he had to do is cross a few wires, and quickly close the oven, and say he’d get someone to fix it.

He ran out almost immediately and jogged to where he was supposed to meet up with Qi’ra, Rhys and several other slaves.

He found them standing next to one of the atrocious sculptures: Qi’ra hovering next to Rhys, while two human men flanked a pregnant woman. Cal recalled that the men were twin brothers—Aren and Aten—both with straight black hair and copper skin, while the woman was named Leijla. Her hair was similar to the twins’, but her skin was more like brass in tone.

“Is everything ready?” Rhys asked. “And everyone?”

He peered around, squinting hard.

“Yes,” Qi’ra said quickly. “What’s the next part of the plan?”

Cal grinned. “You follow me, and act like you’re on an errand.”

That didn’t seem to be entirely convincing, though. At least not for people who weren’t Rhys or Qi’ra.

“Look,” Cal added, “if we want to get out, we have to act quickly. And that means we’ve no time for explanations. I promise, I know what I’m doing. Now, _follow me_.”

He turned around and started walking down the corridor. A moment later he heard steps behind him, and so he made sure to walk at the usual pace he’d used when sent on an errand—in some hurry, but afraid to outright run.

They reached the first guard, when a thunderous roar came from beneath them. Cal pretended to get startled, quickly noting that the slaves following him had either had the sense to do the same or were actually shocked by the noise. The guard rushed past them, drawing his blaster.

“Hurry,” Cal hissed, and broke into a run.

Everyone would be running away from the explosion, after all.

 

* * *

 

A few slaves couldn’t really cause much structural damage to the palace. The structure was too big for that, but that had not been Cal’s goal. He just wanted enough chaos for a small group to be able to slip out unnoticed—an easy enough thing when everyone was milling around aimlessly outside, and the building in question was only a few stories high.

Though they had to push through the crowd, Cal and his small group managed to leave the palace grounds without attracting attention. It was laughably easy.

But then, in Cal's experience, fooling distracted guards was always a matter of appearing like someone who was doing exactly what they were supposed to. It was as good as being invisible.

It was getting his charges to the tunnels that was the more complicated part—mostly because Cal wasn’t going to do it straight away, and instead had to take them on an extended walk just to be sure. And that meant that they needed to take breaks for Rhys and Leijla to rest.

Eventually, they did manage to descend into the tunnels, and then, all Cal had to do was convince the first cell he found to take him and the former slaves to Alia.

“And who did you seduce to free them?” Fein Nane asked with a grin. He was still pretty young—just shy of twenty, as far as Cal knew, and a recent addition..

“No one,” Cal replied. “I’m not a one trick pony, kid. I’d love to tell you the whole story, but I really need to get those people to Alia and Betl. They’ve information we will need.”

“I’ll get someone,” Fein finally said.

Cal nodded. He knew they’d be checked several more time before they’d get to talk with any of the leaders.

“Let’s make ourselves comfortable,” he said to his fellow escapees. “This will take a while.”

 

* * *

 

Qi’ra wasn’t sure who she’d expected the leaders of the Correllian resistance to be, but it wasn’t an old woman who looked like someone’s doting grandma and a middle-aged woman covered in burn scars. If anyone had asked her who it could be, she’d have pointed to the statuesque black-haired woman with pale blue eyes who stood next to the scarred woman.

Perhaps it was because she remembered seeing her in the various news programs and transmissions—like the last one where she broke actual metal chains and stole Dictator Illai’s Force Hound.

Which made her wonder about Cal’s sanity, when he called the black-haired woman “Tookie”.

“Does my voice sound like meowing to you, Cal?” the woman asked with a small smile. “Don’t answer—we can catch up later. I’m pretty sure you and your friends will have a lot to say.”

“You’ve a lovely voice, Tookie,” Cal said, and turned towards the two other women. “I know the plans for Illai’s funeral: there will be a procession to the Great Mushroom Temple.”

“What? There’s no such temple,” Qi’ra protested. “You mean the Temple of the Purifiers.”

“Yes. It looks like one of those big round mushrooms that blow up when you step on them,” Cal said. “Everyone calls it the Great Mushroom Temple. Anyway— there will be no funeral feast, since he didn’t die in battle but of a sickness. But most predors and high-ranking bureaucrats will be there.”

The scarred woman nodded.

“If I may?” Rhys said suddenly, stepping forward. “One of you managed to steal Dictator Illai’s Force Hound, right?”

“Yes, that was me,” the black-haired woman said.

“Can you do it again?” Rhys asked.

“I think so,” the black-haired woman replied.

“Then you should do this with Azhdaha,” he said. “She’s predor Namai’s Hound—but she’s a noghri warrior.”

The last part clearly did mean something to the black-haired woman, who nodded slowly. “I see. And you think that if I free her, she will turn on her master?”

“She will turn on all the rakata officials,” Rhys replied. “She has very little love for them. And she protected us—I mean, regular slaves.”

“I will need a description,” the woman said.

“He’s a noghri,” Qi’ra said indicating Rhys. “Esk—I mean Azh-“ She faltered, feeling herself blush at tripping at the sounds. “Azhadaha is a more blueish grey than Rhys.”

“I think I will be able to find her, then,” the woman said. “Can you tell us anything else?”

“The rakata are already at each other’s throats,” Cal added. “I think they will be nice enough to remove at least one more ambitious predor before the funeral happens.”


	20. Where The Great Mushroom Temple Suffers Further Indiginities

The procession drove slowly through the streets, the speeders decorated with symbols of Illai’s conquests. Barriers had been erected, preventing anyone from using the streets that’d be used by the mourners, and soldiers and police officers patrolled the sidewalks looking for anyone intent on causing trouble.

But to any of them, it’d seem that it was only the curious that had come to stare at the passing cavalcade. Unless, of course one knew where to look, then one might have caught a few hidden weapons here and there.

Then again, those who knew where to look were also in on the plan.

Berezi had found a spot near the Great Mushroom, where he could watch the crowd and the oncoming speeders. They glided past him—little bunkers with a cargo of dignitaries and predors—secure in the knowledge they were safe inside. They likely thought that if nothing had happened by now, nothing would.

Once the last speeder drove past the gate to the temple, it shut with a final-sounding clang.

The masses would get to watch the funeral on giant screens. Berezi didn’t exactly smirk, as he thought about this, but he did feel a certain sense of smugness. He knew that in a few moments, there’d be panic and chaos, but for the moment, he let himself feel the elation.

And then, as promised, chaos did arrive—a speeder broke past one of the barriers and rammed the gate. A moment later it went up in flames, the explosives hidden inside it tearing out the gate and blowing up a chunk of the fence around it.

Seconds later, several armoured speeders drove into the temple courtyard, not even waiting for the smoke to clear.

Berezi took out his blaster, while the crowd around him started moving about uncertainly—not sure if they should run or join in.

 

* * *

 

Azhdaha turned toward the crash in time to see several armoured speeders driving in—they were quite obviously not designed, but rather cobbled together to withstand a lot of punishment.

And someone had seen fit to paint them with anti-authoritarian slogans too, a touch that made Azhdaha want to smile.

But she didn’t have time to feel amused. Armed humans and selonians had poured out of the speeders almost as soon as they had stopped. She needed to-

She faltered. For a moment, her gaze caught that of one of the rebels—a tall woman with eerie pale blue eyes—and Azhdaha felt herself hesitate in mid-step.

Why did she think she needed to protect her master? She _hated_ him. And it occurred to her that now was a very good time to make that known. The rakata were still stunned by the attack, neither running nor fighting.

She turned fluidly and jumped, igniting her ‘saber as she fell on her master. He didn’t even have time to scream.

 

* * *

 

Amaya didn’t wait for Azhdaha to find a new target. As soon as she was certain that it had worked, and that the Force Hound was free of her binding, she moved to find her own target. It wasn’t particularly hard—a different Force Hound rushed towards her, blue blade ignited.

Amaya dove out of their way, and grabbed their left arm. She could see a line of weakness there—perhaps a recently healed broken bone—and so punched at their elbow, augmenting her own strength with the Force. Then, in the few seconds when the Force Hound reeled, she grabbed their arm with the ‘saber and twisted, forcing them to let go of the weapon.

A wave of heat blazed past her, as Lupe walked forward with the newly made flamethrower. She was one of the few people capable of carrying a tank with enough fuel to be useful—and given that one on one fights with Force sensitives tended to be hard on those who could not touch the Force, they needed the few minutes of advantage the conflagration would give them.

Just as Lupe and two more of Alia's rebels walked past Amaya, she put her blaster to the Force Hound’s helmet and fired it point blank into the eye-piece. At this distance, there was no way to avoid it—the plastiglass melted in an instant, and the Force Hound sagged, useless weight in Amaya’s arms. She let them fall, and drew her own lightsaber with her free hand.

Lupe and the others would be running out of fuel soon.

 

* * *

 

Janan rushed behind the others, the heavy backpack bouncing painfully against her hips and shoulders. The others would occupy the attention of the rakata and their Force Hounds, while she made sure that the damage they did would not be just a few deaths.

With a push of the Force, she wrenched the door of the temple out of its frame, and sent it flying. True, it didn’t fly very far, but as she ran into the temple, she did notice two bodies underneath.

She drew her blaster and shot the first priest she noticed—a stooped rakata with brick-red skin. It took her several more precise shots to clear out the hall, and once this was done, she put her backpack down on the floor.

Carefully, she started pulling out the explosives within, and setting timers. She worked methodically, only occasionally turning around to shoot anyone she sensed through the Force who might interrupt her work.

For a moment, it seemed like she alone would be enough, but then, she sensed a larger group of guards rush in. She threw herself over behind a column, just as a shot glanced her thigh. She peered out, shooting in the direction she sensed the guards from.

One fell, then another, but more kept coming. Janan had to think of a way to stop them before there were enough of them to be able to rush her.

 

* * *

 

Lupe couldn’t say she liked the protective suit—it was bulky and she sweated by the gallon, but she was glad for it nonetheless. Just like Iron-Eyes had said, one of the Force Hounds figured out that they ought to target the tank, which predictably went up on contact with a lightsaber.

Sadly for the Force Hound, unlike Lupe’s suit, their armour didn’t protect them from the heat of the explosion. Though the force of the explosion had tossed them both, Lupe survived with bruises. The Force Hound’s armour had torn or burned through in several places, leaving blistered and charred skin visible.

And still, they tried to get up. It was rather unnerving.

Then, they grew still, and moments later, another Force Hound—this one helmetless, landed just in front of them. They were short, with long arms, and a small crest of horns running through the middle of their head.

“Run,” they hissed at the other Force Hound.

Then, they turned to look at Lupe and grinned, showing a row of sharp white teeth.

“You too,” they said, and then they vaulted over Lupe.

Lupe decided not to question them, and ran for one of the transports, dropping her useless flamethrower.

 

* * *

 

Quantity was a quality of its own, and Janan was starting to realize she would not escape from the temple. Despite her best efforts, they temple guards had managed to cut her off from the door. She’d managed to block one door to the main hall with pews, but it wasn’t the only one, and in the time it took her to clog the one, guards had poured out of the others.

She’d positioned herself near the explosives, knowing that they’d go off soon.

A shot pierced her arm, and she let it fall, her blaster clattering to the ground. She reached out with the Force and pushed, making the guards around her fall, but another shot hit her side. She fell to her knees, clutching the wound with her left hand.

She heard another discharge of a blaster, and then nothing else.

 

* * *

 

There was a deafening roar, as the windows on the lowest level of the temple were blown out in an explosion. Shards flew in all direction, like shrapnel. By now, the rebels had started retreating, so they were mostly hidden in or behind the armoured speeders.

The remaining living rakata and Force Hounds were not all as lucky, and several ended up getting hit by the sharp glass pieces.

Amaya was one of the last to retreat, covering others as she shot and deflected blaster shots, the ‘saber almost a green blur in her hand. She’d just reached the door, when out of nowhere she felt a sudden sense of emptiness.

With an unshakable certainty, she knew her mother was dead. She’d not made it out of the temple.

For a moment, she hesitated—a moment that could have been lethal, if not for the sudden intervention of the Force Hound she’d freed. The noghri woman landed in front of her and pushed her into the speeder, before jumping in herself.

“I hope you weren’t planning to leave me behind,” she said in Low Rakatan.


End file.
